SETTING THE DATE

“When do you want to get married?” I asked, during our flight to Indiana for Christmas.

“I always liked September nineteenth,” she replied.

“How come?”

“It just came to me one day, and I remember talking to my sister about this date. She said it would have to be 2004.”

“In this life, while dating me, you had this vision, I hope?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m sorry. I will revert back to taking directions. Do you know what day of the week that is?”

“Not a clue.”

“Hold on.”

In an underappreciated maneuver I tracked September nineteenth down from December twenty-eighth through varied month lengths and days to end at…

“It’s a Saturday. September 19, 2004, is a Saturday,” I proudly announced.

“It’s destiny!” she exclaimed.

“It’s good math,” I replied.

“What about leap year?” she inquired.

“What? Those don’t exist anymore. Don’t you realize they’re not real, like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?” I stated in defense of my calculations.

“What about Santa Claus?”

“I mean, sometimes people forget about leap years, just like Santa forgets a good little boy or girl every once in a while. You know he does a lot in one night. You have to allow for a clerical error here and there.”

“Santa doesn’t make errors.”

“Santa probably made his own calendar, years ago, that doesn’t add an extra day every four years, so his record keeping and internal calendar function are more accurate than mine,” I mumbled.

“So what day is it?”

“Saturday would be the eighteenth. I like it,” I said, hoping destiny came with a give-or-take-a-day clause.

“It’s not the same day.”

“I actually like the eighteenth better. I can be your husband one day sooner, this way. We would have to wait five or six years to get the right day of the week. Even I, Mr. Engagement Procrastinator, don’t want to wait that long.”

“Now you’re all anxious about it,” she said skeptically.

“You know I can’t stand leaving dirty dishes out overnight. Why would I want to wait an extra day to marry you? We can just go to Vegas when we land.”

“That was cute until the Vegas part. I need a church.”

“September eighteenth it is,” I said.

“How many months away is that?” she asked.

“Eight and a half.”

“According to The Knot and this wedding magazine (that she finally had a reason to purchase) we were already thirty-seven tasks behind schedule.” That news was a slight damper on the celebration.

Based on our noteworthy romantic history, she wanted to get married in Bloomington, Indiana, my hometown, which is also where she went to college, where we met, and where most of our friends previously or, at that time, resided. Whether this was an intentional move to keep the soon-to-be-infamous MOB (Mother of the Bride) at a safe distance, we may never know.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival