I remember this: it was really freakin’ hot for the first of November. I wore a pair of jeans and a camisole with weak elastic that made my sternum look like it resided somewhere on my midsection (I would have said boobs, but I didn't have those then, and I still don't have those now). I walked around with a bandana strung through one of my belt loops because I had a cold and was blowing my nose every four minutes. There was a red spot that appeared on my right shoulder and itched like hell. I attributed it to a spider of unknown origin. Days later and a visit to the doctor’s office because of a What the Hell Was This Uncomfortable Rash All Over My Torso phenomenon, I found out it was poison ivy and not the early stages of a disease known as Marriage.
It was so hot that when the folks arrived with the cake they looked like they had pulled into a funeral home. The heat caused the cake to soften and when they made the turn off Highway 64 at the Tarheel Q, the thing slid wide and the bottom layer broke into pieces. I was all about cracking into that mess right then and there and serving the top to the attendees—they’d never know the difference. But the cake folks wanted to repair the thing and asked if we had another refrigerator. I remember this moment clearly: my mother hesitated and then looked at the guy and said, “We do, but don’t you ever tell anyone that you saw my basement.” When he returned from the depths, he said, with a great expression of relief, “I’m so glad to know that my parents aren’t the only ones with a basement like that.” The cake turned out beautifully and Jason and I actually ate the top a week later when someone asked if we could bring dessert to a party.
My uncle called me that morning to tell me he couldn’t come because he had diarrhea. Had he known me well enough, he would have chosen constipation as a more sympathetic excuse. I haven’t talked to him since. But it’s okay. The thought of diarrhea on my wedding day makes me laugh now.
Jason wore a stupid suit that he hated. Pleats have no place on a pair of pants unless your beer gut needs some room under the belt line. Jason has never had a beer gut. His own wedding was the only time he ever wore that ridiculous suit. Shortly after, we had a nice event to attend, and we marched right over to the Banana Republic and laid down some dollars for a suit measured and cut to fit a European build rather than the shit that the Men’s Warehouse rolls out to fit American men who’ve spent years ordering steak and bloomin’ onions at their local Outback—men whose last foray into exercising was scoring a winning touchdown on their high school football field back in 1995.
I remember that my dad had a surprise for me: it was a cut of deer covered in pineapple slices on the Grillmaster 500 in the backyard. He was very proud of that.
Vern made a groom’s cake out of Halloween-styled Peeps.
It only took me 10 minutes to get ready, so while we waited for the event start, I sat in Vern’s bedroom wearing a cotton shirt and boxer shorts, surrounded by sisters and girlfriends and Lee Quinn.
The only tears I cried were with my dad, inside the house where no one else could see. It is one of the rare emotional moments in my life that I can say I shared solely with him and am thankful for.
Katharine fell as she walked down the stone steps of the front yard. Her face came within inches of the ground, but years of ballet kept her from total face-plant. There was a collective gasp. I thought it was great—tension relieved.
I remember that the formalities didn’t last too long, but the whole time I held Jason’s hands like my life depended on it. And it did. And it still does. And I am glad for that.