Wednesday, November 27, 2013

PARTING WISHES



We drove back to the hotel to part ways for the last time before being united as husband and wife. She was staying at the hotel; her beauty sleep had to be respected; and I was staying at my brother’s house in the guest room, which also housed their new puppy in her cage. She is an English Mastiff, so this puppy resembles a petite quarter horse.

I had to retrieve my travel bag of overnight and preparation essentials. This consisted of new black socks, new undershirt, and new black boxer briefs. I normally wear boxers, but apparently I needed even more slimming around the hips. She had done some last-minute shopping to obtain everything she and I needed for our special day. Not that I usually spend my days in soiled undergarments, but crisp and clean was the name of the game. I received a new bar of soap, only to be used that morning or at my decided cleaning time. It was shaped like a bear and smelled like honey. I was going to be so pretty and smell so nice. Lastly, she handed me a gift-wrapped box.

“Is this the present that we said we weren’t getting each other?” I asked.

“Yes. But you’ve put so much work into this, I thought you deserved one.”

Yes, I had been working hard, but she had absorbed most of the stress. I was working hard simply to try and relieve portions of that stress from her. But despite everything she had to deal with, including me, she went that extra mile to make someone else feel happy and appreciated. That was one of the infinite reasons I took her off the market. It was also why I could overlook her hints at upgrading the cleanliness of my wedding undergarments. I opened the gift and was blown away that she had gotten me, not a good-luck pack of breath mints, but an elegant Swiss Army watch.

Let us again take a moment to be thankful for the unfazed neutrality of Switzerland that allows their obviously entirely heterosexual armed forces to pursue their passionate interest in fashion design, without the worry of armed conflict disrupting the creative process. How effective an offensive can you have with a fighting force that is constantly delayed by the looting of the fallen to inspect the thread count of their garments and seek inspiration from their methods of supply-packing and transport?

It wasn’t easy to say good-bye, but it was easy to look forward to tomorrow. We kissed one last time and smiled—in anticipation of what lay ahead and in relief at reaching the culmination of the last nine months.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

THE DINNER SHOWDOWN



The rehearsal dinner is a dinner, but it is not a rehearsal. This is the real deal. The MOG (mother of the groom) has the honor of opening the formal festivities for the inner circle of guests and setting the tone for the events to come. She also has the advantage of only having to accommodate a quarter of the guests. The MG was all over this one. She started touring possible rehearsal dinner sites, when we were still in San Diego.

This allowed her to fill her own suggestion box, instead of ours. The only restraints we set were to avoid outdoing the reception itself and to try not to serve the same food. She did everything, short of monogramming moist towelettes for everyone after the meal. This was the event that, hopefully, illustrated: “had you taken all of my suggestions, this is what you could have expected.”

The dinner was scheduled to follow the rehearsal, with a cocktail hour preceding it. We were a little late, because we had to retrieve all the gifts from the hotel. It was our day, or at least the practice run of our day, so a stylish, celebrity-late arrival was not uncalled for.

Our two big concerns were, first, whether we had forgotten anyone who needed a present, and second, what we were going to say for our toast. We had gotten everyone and their mothers a present, so surely we were safe on the first item. The second item had consumed a great part of our car ride to Bloomington the previous day. It was a typical conversation, where it took me about twenty minutes to contribute something useful. It was not that I was silent. I just didn’t say things that she thought would be appropriate, since the minister—and other people she didn’t know yet—would be present, and good impressions are important.

At some point down the road, I became useful and helped a bit with a toast that was somehow humorous, gracious, and sincere, all at once. This was mostly her doing, as I may be able to get one, maybe two, of these qualities at any given time, but completing the trifecta is beyond my social abilities.

Let me provide an example from the meal. After the cocktail hour, when everyone had made it to their assigned places, my father kindly asked Jimmy, our minister, to say a prayer before dinner. It was a great prayer. I don’t remember all the details, but it had blessings and thankfulness for everyone coming together for such a festive occasion, maybe something about nourishment. It concluded with his “amen,” followed by the communal “amen.”

Right after that, that I exclaimed, “Yeah, that’s why we got him!”

This was sincere. We were both happy with our good fortune at having Jimmy presiding over our ceremony. I chose to vocalize it at that point. I felt this was humorous, in and of itself, but by immediately following a prayer, it became the kind of humor that, consciously or not, people were a bit hesitant to laugh at. Perhaps, they wished to stay in the Lord’s good graces a couple minutes longer than I. This slight discomfort only added to my personal enjoyment of the moment. Now graciousness, as characterized by tact and propriety, was not abundantly apparent in that moment. Jimmy actually enjoyed it. My dad had that parental look of half-smiling while shaking his head.

The dinner proceeded without a hitch after that. We toasted, thanking everyone, especially The MG and The MOB, for all of their suggestions and recommendations, then distributed what seemed like 137 presents or so.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Monday, November 25, 2013

PRACTICE MAKES NEAR-PERFECT



Now it was time to bring everyone together to see how this was all going to work. This practice was scheduled for roughly an hour. All we needed was an hour to put this magical ceremony together and work out any kinks that might not have been accounted for. After nine months of planning, one hour seemed short. Imagine studying months for medical school entrance exams; you take them and barely survive. You spend an hour in school and head off to the operating room. It seems unlikely that your first procedure will go smoothly.

Everyone gathered at the correct church within fifteen minutes of the scheduled start time. It didn’t resemble a real ceremony at all; it simply covered marching orders.

“You will stand here and wait for this cue. Then you move here and stand again. Things will be said. You two will do this. Parents will proceed to candles; candles burn; return to original place. Things will be said; you will repeat them. Bless it, kiss it, hallelujah! Are there any questions? The wedding coordinator will be at the back, giving everyone the go signal, and Jimmy will run the show, when everyone is in place. Let’s walk through it from the top.”

It seemed easy enough to move when cued and speak when spoken to. About halfway through the walk-through—enter musician. He came two-thirds of the way down the aisle. He stopped and tapped his foot, waiting for the spotlight to be turned his way. He caught Jimmy’s attention with the sun reflecting off his Aqua Netreinforced acrylic beast of a plucking thumbnail.

(Please use the accent of your choice for this statement.) “I was with students. I need to plug in. I need to hear the room, the acoustics, the romance. I suppose you want someone of my magnificence up front for the ladies to enjoy and the men to envy. Were you in the middle of something? I will only be tuning for ten minutes or so.”

The walk-though made it seem so simple. And you really want it to be simple, because you are so done with the checklist from The Knot, verifying details, preparing guest-friendly favors, and checking comfort bags for allergens. You want the rubber stamp of approval and a ride to the airport.

We held each other’s hands and looked at one another as final placements were covered.

“About this time tomorrow, we’ll be married,” she said.

“I know. I can’t wait.”

A ton of stress was lifted, as I looked at her and thought about being married to her. It’s great to have the moment when you know, but I enjoy the moments where you know you knew, that very first time, but still didn’t know how good you had it. That is the magic of love.

The humor of love comes when you enjoy finding the hair she’s pulled from her hairbrush floating in the toilet in the morning. If you’re curious, I’m not allowed to leave anything in the toilet, not even a Post-it note that’s says, “I love you. Please flush your hair.”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Friday, November 22, 2013

PICKING UP THE DUDS



I had to pick up my tux. I was about fifteen pounds lighter then when I had gotten my measurements, maybe two months ago. This was a product of some exercise, but mostly some stress-induced dinnerless nights.

As I walked to the tux store, I thought about my pants possibly being too big. I wasn’t sure how pounds equate to inches, but I prefer all pant droppings to be voluntary. Christa and The MG had very different takes on this shrinkage. Christa was very annoyed that I could lose weight by doing nothing (that is, nothing that she wasn’t doing). Never flaunt your metabolism to a loved one in a pre-wedding fitness scenario. There is no winner there. On the other end, The MG, acting as my mom, was concerned about my health. She wasn’t comfortable with the weight-loss figures that Christa relayed to her over the phone.

“He loses weight just sitting around. It’s not fair,” Christa complained to her.

“That’s not normal. Does he have a worm? Maybe he should see a doctor?” The MG replied. A tapeworm? Honestly?

“Why don’t you ask him,” Christa replied, handing me the phone.

I had to get on the phone and reassure my mom that I felt fine. I was simply exercising and skipping a meal every once in a while. I know it’s not the healthiest thing to do, but it’s not a parasite or a debilitating disease.

After I got off the phone, Christa said, “That’s great. Now, not only does she think I can’t really cook, but you’re malnourished because of it. Or maybe she thinks I’m feeding you some kind of infected meat, since we apparently live in filth.”

I thought she might be overreacting, but stating so might be construed as a negative comment. I felt that wasn’t worth the risk.

“You know I didn’t ask you to marry me because of your cooking and cleaning skills. It’s because we’re meant for one another, even if we eat mac and cheese and live in squalor for a few days, before we decide to do something about it,” I replied.

“You can’t say I didn’t give you plenty of warning,” she stated.

“Noted.”

Arriving at the tux store, I was greeted by the friendly staff.

“Tux for Lloyd, please,” I said.

“Here you are, sir. Why don’t you try it on and make sure it fits.”

I was assisted into the jacket and, for some reason, my arms seemed to be held slightly aloft. I understood this was a penguin suit, but that’s based on the color pattern, not the fact that I was now limited to 80 percent rotator-cuff motion and couldn’t reach into my pockets. My armpits puffed out moisture, because this was even worse than the baggy-pants scenario that had been running through my mind.

Before I could put a voice to my racing thoughts, the kind gentleman said, “Oops, this is Matt’s tux.”

Yes, I do have a narrower brother, and I was putting on his jacket. “Ha.” My wedding plan-racked brain induced a nervous laugh.

“I thought I had lost weight,” I said.

I made a funny. I tried to stabilize my thoughts and reassure my fragile confidence. Keep working the friendly, just a few more hours until cocktail hour at the rehearsal dinner. It’s a marathon, but we’re almost done, I told myself.

“Don’t worry, the pants are adjustable,” my assistant replied, reducing my fear.

Who is Tuxedo Jim, and how can I shake his hand? Adjustable pants, damn! Tuxedo renting that’s starvation- and glutton-proof, the great Oz has spoken, and it will be done. Please tell me there is some kind of space-age polymer that makes them stain, wrinkle, and flame resistant as well. I went into the changing room, hopped in, and adjusted the flaps to streamline, just snug enough to hold onto my newly svelte hips.

I gave the thumbs up as I returned to the sales floor. “If you see Jim, tell him to stop by the reception for a drink on the house,” I said.

“Do you want to take your brother’s tux?” they asked.

“Oh, Christ, I better,” I replied.

“And how will you be paying?”

“Do you accept blood platelets?”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Thursday, November 21, 2013

CERTIFY MY LOVE



One of the vital tasks we saved for the day before the wedding was obtaining the wedding certificate. Without this, our wedding would not be recognized, by the state, that is. No one in attendance would care if we had a certificate that signified bureaucratic approval, but apparently our love would be meaningless, unless the state had its form on file. We could vow anything we wanted, but we would be nothing more than two people who exchanged some jewelry and threw a party. A wonderfully attired couple whose party was so mind-blowing in its seamless melding of theme, color, and spectacle, it would be recalled for generations in bedside tales.

Getting the certificate is such a significant moment in each and every to-be-married couple’s life that the state of Indiana has created a special line in the clerk’s office, down in the bowels of the Justice Building. The state also would charge us a reasonable one-time fee of $62, since we were considered an out-of-state couple. In-state couples pay $20. Either that extra $42 goes towards needless interstate bureaucracy, or local residents are taxed $42 for wedding certificate production and processing. That makes children cry at Christmas. In addition, they only accept checks from Indiana, because anyone who would opt to come to Indiana to get married smells of scoundrel.

Under the halogen bulbs of heavenly bliss, we made our way to the counter, where we were greeted by a pleasant lady who said, “Congratulations!” and whipped out a four-foot long contract to validate our love. We had to disclose our whereabouts for the past twenty years, all our blood relations, who gave birth to us, what names they went by, where they had met, and their reasons for conceiving. And since this contract was a bond of trust with the state of Indiana, they also needed to know what our intended whereabouts would be for the next six months in order to track us down, in case we tried to pass our bad Ohio checks to other local service providers.

The excitement of getting our wedding certificate was tempered by the reconnaissance we had to do—gathering all of the necessary information to make our parents accessories to any foul play we might do in the future. I will be glad to have our love officially on file in Indiana, the trusting state.

While we were filing our love, it was exciting to hear my future bride say she would be taking my name in some official context. I felt like I was really looking at my wife for the first time, and that was the best feeling. But I wish to state that, in no way, should the state of Indiana take credit for fostering such magical moments, due to its desire to create paper trails for all individuals seeking lifetime partnership within its state lines.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival