Earlier this evening I was reading this article about weddings and the cash grab. I almost hurled. I didn't even want a wedding, at least not the kind of wedding that most women slaver over, these entitled little wenches who think that the whole world revolves around tablecloths and tampons that match. I wanted to get married in Prague, away from the crap that both our families put on us, in a place that could just be ours.
We didn't. Instead we listened to our mothers and had a small ceremony in Berkeley. I look at the pictures now and I cringe at the excess weight I carried ... which is so sad because I can't see past it to the joy on my face.
I know it was there, though. It still is. I married the man of my dreams, the person who thrills me to this day, the only one I've ever really loved. I would've done it with a damn Cheerio on my finger, standing at the counter of City Hall. I would do it over and over. And never would I see it as an opportunity to gain anything more than a partner in life, because in that moment there would be nothing else that I would need.