Randy and I are getting married next February.

Or March. Or January. Whichever month is the least romantic and the most business-like.

We've been together for going on eight years now. The far, far majority of that time has been spectacularly well spent-- a fact we both acknowledged during a four-minute drive to Lowe's last month wherein we also decided to make this shit legal. I've had longer conversations with telemarketers, frankly, and that's probably why I was able to get through the whole thing without having to wrap a paper bag around my mouth or drop roll out the passenger side window.

I'm excited and happy, don't get me wrong-- it's just that the thought of planning a traditional wedding makes my brain scrunch down into my neck. I would make a terrible spy for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason has to be that any amount of invaluable information can be extracted from me simply by handing over a Modern Bride magazine and telling me to make shit happen. I'm not religious, I'm not detail oriented, I have the attention span of a shark at the bottom of a waterslide, it's just not my deal.

The marriage part, though, that's the part I'm excited about. Any time two people in a loving relationship decide to take their commitment to the next level-- whatever that level may be; moving in together, having kids together, investing in a kegerator together-- that seems like a reason to celebrate.

So I mentioned it to a few people at our New Year's party. Casually. Hey, we've decided to get married next year, just FYI. And no sooner than the words were out of my mouth, a giant estrogen cloud of squee slammed me in the back.

No, wait, I wanted to say, buckled over as I was from the squee. I was totally wrong there-- we're actually breaking up. But right about then, Christopher started driving his school bus around the backyard and we all had to start running.

I faced the joyous squee committee again when we stopped jogging for our lives. "Very, very, casual," I stressed. No formal engagement, no engagement ring (I tend to lose expensive things and, let's face it, I don't need another pawn temptation), no showers-- bridal, rain, cleansing, or otherwise, no super formal ceremony.

The joyous squee board was confused.

"But... okay, but you have to have a dress. Because... you have to."

I considered a minute. "Okay," I conceded. I like dresses. I'm down with a dress. But something completely plain. Hot, but plain. Long. Ivory. Silk. It will be my wedding dress, and then it will be my nightgown. Ooooh. All of a sudden this is very important to me, this conversion. It's suddenly critical that my wedding dress double as sleepwear.

But I managed to keep that part from the darling squee committee.

In my mind, nothing will change, really. We'll just be married. I've been telling the Direct TV people and the Verizon people we've been married for years. I probably won't even change my last name, although Erin² is marrying Randy's son, Christopher, in November, and the thought of making things even more difficult by having the same first AND last name is a kind of awesome I'll have to put some serious thought into.

Here's how I picture it: Randy and I, his three kids, their significant others, my parents. A cruise? Belize? Mexico? On a beach somewhere. Ooooh, people will say. That's one hell of a dressing gown. Flowers? Flowers seem like a lot of work. I feel my brain start to skooch when I think too much about flowers. But if there aren't any flowers, what do I do with my hands? My silk ivory nightgown doesn't have pockets, after all. Hey, what about those finger trap things?

That could work. Something small, something with a subtle checkerboard design... my hands would be demurely captured and fidget-free! I bet I could get like four hundred of those things for the same price as some stupid flowers. And finger traps don't die. Perfect! I just have to be sure I can wrangle out of it before the whole "wedding ring" part of the ceremony, but I'm not really worried. I'm generally pretty sweaty.


P.S. Randy just walked into the office. "Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing. Writing about us getting married."
"Who?" 
¶ posted by Erin on Sunday, January 20, 2008