THE FIANCE FIASCO
We were among the first of our friends to get married. This meant two things: 1) we had no idea how to plan a wedding, 2) weddings were primarily attended by twenty-somethings for whom an open bar was a novelty to be maximized. Neither M nor I had any religious background to speak of. Our wedding was in a field. But our parents still had indoctrinated notions of priority and/or religious ancestors who “would roll over in their graves”, that we were encouraged to have at least a nominally official officiant.[1] At the same time, we were wondering if it is okay to ask that the word God not be used in the ceremony.[2]
This was the tightrope we were navigating when we heard about a minister from a nearby town who was “super chill” and whose denomination did not require the wedding to take place in a church or follow any prescribed wording. We arranged to meet the minister to secure his willingness to join us in [insert secular synonym for “holy”] matrimony. At the time we were living 6+ hours away from where the minister was based, but we discovered that we had a wedding in the same midpoint as the minister had a conference. Perfect! We arranged to meet for breakfast the morning after the wedding.[3]
The night before was the second or third wedding most of our gang had ever been to. It was attended to by 100 of our peers, many seeing each other for the first time in a while. It was like Homecoming, meets high school reunion, meets the Hangover/Bridemaids. We event-ized the opportunity: we had pre-parties, pre-pre parties, after parties and breakfast parties. And most exciting of all: Open Bar!
Did I say, Open Bar?
I meant: OPEN BAR!!!
This particular Open Bar, I mean wedding, was at a very fancy golf club. I assume the place was supplied with alcohol for the wedding, but at some point, it ran out and everyone started in on the general stock. Later, THAT must have run out, because I clearly remember people resorting to Peach Shnapps, and other bad ideas in a bottle, because that’s all that was left.
Following the wedding, we continued to honour the union of our friends by extending our revelries at a nearby apartment. There we launched into the version of a dance party that the wedding DJ did not provide - swapping out Rage Against the Machine for YMCA. Having drunk from the magically refilling wine glasses all night, at this point we think we are invincible…. specifically, we think we are ready to “do hair” (aka Head Bang). Doing Hair is the “adult” equivalent of shaking the baby, except that being slightly brain damaged is a prerequisite versus (or as well as) a consequence. This activity usually results in a frozen neck and a migraine that feels like you…well, like you spent the night banging your head. In my case the results were a little more obvious. It is in this studio apt mosh pit (read: insufficient space for this activity), head ‘doing hair’ to F**k You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me, that my head is on a downwards trajectory, at the precise time that my head banging compatriot iS on a dramatic upswing.[4]
BANG!
Back of his skull collides with the front of mine, aka my face.
Fast forward to the next morning/two hours later…My brother T arrives, takes one look at me and takes the Lord’s name in vain. Because even if you aren’t a believer, sometimes a good ol’ blaspheme is the appropriate response. In this case, the appropriate response to the massive black eye I have. It is a very dark shiner, covering a third of my face. I am not a makeup wearer, and after a few futile swipes with my cover up wand, it becomes clear that the possibility of being able to mask it is out the window.
We are faced with a dilemma. We are meeting the minister in an hour. We are already pretty sure that he won’t agree to marry us because we are godless cretins. We were primed to manage the heretic part, but we had hoped not to have to mitigate the dumb-ass part of the equation. We can’t postpone. The wedding is only a couple months away and we have no plan B. Do we acknowledge my full-face contusion? Cop to our evening of irresponsible wedding-going, while trying to show we are responsible enough to get married? We opt to just say nothing about the shiner.[5] We figured if the Minister mentions it, we will come up with some acceptable reason, but otherwise would pretend it’s just a birthmark.
We meet the Minister outside of the meet up location. He is 7 foot tall, with long hair, a somewhat unkept beard, a single earring, worn jeans, and Birkenstocks with work (as in Marks Work Warehouse) socks. In my memory he is wearing a Grateful Dead t shirt. Which there is no way he was but tells you a lot about his vibe. He is definitely a “Give Peace a Chance” type of Dude - which could swing either way for us.
He doesn’t mention the black eye.
We don’t mention the black eye.
The place we are meeting for breakfast is a bar, which (this being the 1990s) is basically a massive ashtray filled with butts and stale beer. I am feeling increasingly hung over. The go-to is one of those platter sized breakfasts with 100 types of greasy breakfast meats and half a dozen eggs. I couldn’t bear to look at that, let alone eat it. So, I opt for soup - cream of broccoli, to be specific, which is thick as mud, looks like pond scum and is cold (not intentionally). I am concentrating so hard on eating enough to not be rude, while not regurgitating it (which would be much ruder), that I am barely following the conversation. Until the minister starts explaining the United church’s views on divorce. He offers some examples of when it might be best to part ways. He then says:
“Say, for example, a husband beats his wife…”
Well, s—t. This might be a good time, perhaps, to say something? But it would look defensive. Right? Also, we had zero brain power to come up with something on the fly as planned. So, we stayed silent. We decided, you might say, to “forever hold our peace.”
Thankfully, the Deadhead minister decides to give us a chance. Maybe Jerry Garcia showed him the way: " They love each other, Lord you can see it’s true".[6]
Twenty-six (black eye free) years later, looks like he made the right call.
-------------
[1] My mother said it wasn’t a wedding if it didn’t include the word “asunder.”
[2] It is, by the way – at least for a chill-lax United minister.
[3] Call back to when I mentioned the open bar excitement. Perhaps the more astute of you can see some flaw in this plan - especially given M & I’s track record, see “How I Met Your Father”
[4] M doesn’t dance, but let’s pretend it was M for the sake of preserving the innocence of the perpetrator (initials BW, first name rhymes with Hair, ironically).
[5] Wrongly. Of course, wrongly. Obviously, wrongly. But remember that at the time we were recovering from self-induced concussions. Our brains were not functioning properly (at that moment – both in terms of the day and in terms of the stage of life, apparently).
[6] “They Love Each Other”, Reflections, 1976.