I could ramble endlessly about my wedding, which finally, finally occurred this past weekend, but I’ll try to adhere to my pithy, confluent writing principles by stating my postulation upfront: Having a somewhat traditional wedding celebration was like going to the Eiffel Tower.
Yes, the Eiffel Tower. Last summer, I had low expectations of enjoying this most famed of European landmarks, but then was quickly won over by its charms. I had written, “As we approached the tower, I was unimpressed and nursing resentment for this sightseeing chore. We took the stairs to the second platform, which induced serious vertigo for about ten minutes. I was obsessing that I’d pass out. But all my idiosyncratic phobias melted when I took in the Eiffel Tower’s view and realized what I was looking at: A masterpiece of urban engineering, laced with treasured symbols of the best Western Civilization has to offer.”
As my wedding day neared and my life became consumed with the planning, I began to fear that the actual wedding day couldn’t possibly be worth all of the time and effort of myself, Mr. Pinault, and our families. A co-worker who had an elaborate wedding five years ago told me that she wished she had eloped instead. “Yeah, it was a nice day and we have the pictures, but we could have used the money for a down payment on a house,” she said. When the wedding festivities began on Friday, the fact that I was having a wonderful time with my family and friends could not wipe out a sheepish suspicion that I had gathered them there because societal convention dictates religious ceremony for piety followed by an celebratory reception for self-edification.
And then, Saturday afternoon, I walked down the flower-adorned church aisle on my father’s arm as an organ blasted the traditional wedding march. My groom waited at the altar with the wedding party, and as we neared them, I felt as woozy as I did when I climbed the Eiffel Tower. The simultaneous desire to cry and faint invoked a third desire: To grab ahold of Mr. Pinault and burrow into his tuxedo jacket. The pastor’s voice rang out above all, a voice that I have known since I was eight years old, and as we gave our vows in front our family and friends, I suddenly realized that it was the best day of my whole life.
Yes, the cake will be eaten, the flowers will wilt, the dress and accessories will be packed away and rarely thought about, but that moment in the church! That feeling of ceremonious binding to the man I love! The conviction that our love and happiness will last forever! The certainty that we have made our families proud and happy! And the confidence that I looked as beautiful as I ever have in my whole life! It was worth every second of planning. It was even worth the up-do (shown below, courtesy of one of my attentive bridesmaids… after all of the self-glorification, humility prompts me to post the most unglamourous picture of the day.)
