Don't get me wrong. Right now, I'm pretty much on Cloud Nine having a picnic. It seems that every picnic comes with a few ants, and I'm pretty sure my LGBT brothers and sister can identify.
My partner of fourteen years (in February) and I are getting married on Monday. And gawdamighty, it's getting real. We had mentioned getting married a few times over the years, but my partner always felt that we were "married enough". Well, true; no piece of paper could make our relationship any stronger. We've been through hell together and everything the world has thrown at us, cancer, heart attacks, a brief bout of homelessness, whatever, has always seem to make us closer together rather than setting any walls between us.
He's still my bestest friend and my breath still catches in my throat every time he walks into the room.
The notion came up rather suddenly early this year when we were watching a History Channel program on super trains. On installment was on the Acela, the bullet-train that runs from DC to Boston.
I said, "Wow, wouldn't it be cool to ride that once. I haven't been to Boston in years and I'd love to take you on a history tour."
He says, "And while we're there, why don't we drive up to Vermont and get married." Nonchalantly, just like, "Oh, I see the sun has just come out."
I like to wet my pants. But I found my face was wet instead.
Now this was right before he was due to have some really hefty surgery (a femoral artery replaced -- all better now, thanks!) and it's been a helluva summer trying to get him recovered. But we've dealt with worse health issues before and keep truckin'.
By day, I'm your typical software designer. Bo. Ring. But it keeps the mortgage going and gas in the pickup. Here's where it gets different. In my evenings and weekends, I'm also a wedding officiant; ordained Independent. I perform weddings of all kinds, religious and not, all manner of faiths, various languages and rituals requested... in short, I'm first and foremost a creative writer.
Weddings are what I do TO other people. It hasn't been done to ME. It's like having the big walk-on speaking part in a play, never having had to deal with the technicals before.
Oh. My. Fucking. Gawd.
Dear Brides, I take it all back. For years, I've held hands, provided Kleenex, smiled sweetly and picked up the phone and offered the calm voice. I never knew what you were going through.
My partner and I decided to fly to Vermont this weekend and do a civil ceremony up there at a nice GOO B&B. That's Wedding One and itinerary to plan. Then this coming Tuesday, we arrive back in NC to have a Holy Union at our house with our friends and family. Wedding Two, hosted and catered by ourselves.
And all these years I thought I was a top.
Little did I know there is NO frickin' etiquette for a gay male wedding for two redneck country queers. There is no stationery for invitations. I don't frickin' LIKE pink flamingos or silhouettes of two pretty ladies in bridal gowns. Those are so not us. Lightening would strike if either of us wore white.
Who stands where? Who sits where? Who made this stuff up? There is
nothing on the web that comes within a million miles of feeling appropriate. There is no bride. Period.
Somebody please call me a clown car. We'll just all pour out together and mill about until my uncle (who's officiating) throws down a penalty flag and sets the ball.
In a nod to tradition, we'll be having our Union outside in our orchard. AccuWeather (don't start, I know they operate on a tissue of lies) is calling for 60+ and nice. There will be seating for our mothers (or my auntie in my case) and everyone else will gather where they can see and hear. My neighbors' daughter wants to be a flower-girl. Sigh. Ok, because she's my little buddy and she really-really wants to help.
Usually it's a fairly easy thing for me to write ceremonies for other people. They give me a list of their wants, what they like, their preferences, then I do a little research, some cogitation, and boom, out pops a ceremony. Nine times out of nine and a quarter, I get gasps of approval and "you got it exactly" on the first draft.
How in the world does one encapsulate fourteen years of devotion and ever-deepening love and friendship in the allotted eight minutes a ceremony usually takes? I've fussed over and torn apart forty-leven drafts and I'm still fretting. Intentionally, our entrance (together) toward our arch will be in dire contrast to the deep and tender words we will be about to share. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write. I'm going to cry. I can barely proof the thing as it is and we're not even standing up yet. I'm hardly the crying kind.
Our friends know us and our wicked sense of humor. We will be having a shotgun wedding (with real shotguns, unloaded of course -- I'll check!!) and the "march" will be Dixie Chicks'
"White Trash Wedding".
I always tell my brides "a good wedding is good theatre". I just want to make damnsure I have everyone's full and complete attention.
That orta do it :)
But immediately as we take our places and the "oh, that's so them" chuckles fade away, brothers and sisters, regardless of the piece of paper we'll already have in hand, something real and important will take place. We will welcome our friends into our home to celebrate what we've known all along. They will see first-hand that it's not the paper, it's not the ceremony, it's the day-to-day we've lived for so long that makes a marriage.
Oh, yes, I'm eating cake and barbecue and my KILLER sweet potato pie. And potato salad. And mixed greens, home-grown. I'm having some beer and laughter. Folks are bringing their instruments and I'm playing fiddle. But all of those are just the vehicle that bring everyone together to see that we aren't
redefining marriage.
We have
lived it. Through storm, strife, fear, joy, sickness, health, day-in and day-frickin'-out.
Yes, we're getting married. But damn anyone who says we're redefining it. When it comes to
living it (I'm talking to you, Britney Spears and Carrie Prejean), we have. And I dare you both to try and keep up.
Yours Truly,
HillWilliam
trying bravely not to groomzilla-out
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