Here Begins the Rest of My Life

Pre-wedding, Jimmy came over and asked me where I would like the pauses to be in my vows. He said Christa had already chosen hers, and it was up to me where I wanted mine. So I selected my pauses. The problem was that the vows remained the same, but our pauses were slightly different. This caused Christa to at least contemplate: “These are not the pauses I agreed to. Whose vows are these?”

On her turn, she naturally sought to watch Jimmy recite the vows, to get a confirmation that she was hearing what she thought she should be hearing, in the appropriate-sized chunks. This did not register with either of us, as we were being sprinkled with the Lord’s love droppings. But later, she was accused of being a cyborg by one of our guests—or more specifically, one of our guest’s guests. This is why you have a gift registry and table assignments—to redirect and isolate poor taste as much as possible.

Reciting our vows to one another was the most emotional part of the ceremony. It was not the official expiration of my checklist that got me worked up. Nine months of preparation and stress had disappeared with six sentences. I don’t know how to describe it, but I could have saved Christmas for all of Whoville.

We exchanged rings, lit a candle, and waited for the music to end. Prayer said, union confirmed, kiss initiated, kiss completed, announcement made, departures commenced. As I passed my dad in the front row, he gave me a backhand pat on the butt, like I had just come out of a baseball game. “Way to go, Boo,” probably accompanied it but was inaudible to me.

The entire ceremony can be summed up best by the following conversation with my groomsman Andy.

“That went well,” he said.

“Which part?” I inquired.

“The whole thing.”

Was any more explanation needed?

We had a fake limo send-off, drove around the block, and then returned for pictures. We went through every combination of family and bridal party members possible, utilizing the perfect combination of angled shoulders and invasion of personal space to make everyone appear natural and at ease. Our photographer also insisted on a series of highly unnatural-looking handshakes, as if my groomsmen and I had recently ended a prolonged military conflict.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Don’t Hug Your Children

The blessings began. All four of our parents were asked to join us at center stage. We felt we should give The MOB and The MG a little time in the spotlight, as this was their day too. Ask them, you’ll see. Jimmy asked each set of parents for their blessing and support of our union, now and in the future. We received an affirmative on each side, with no accompanying suggestions. I thought that was an excellent sign.

The parents lit their respective unity candles. It was during this lighting period that Christa asked again, “Is my mascara running?”

She verified the condition of her mascara and makeup three times during the ceremony. It was perfect, and I told her so. I don’t know if she was expecting to be able to run off to the powder room mid-ceremony. My fanny pack was only equipped for craft projects. I could have touched it up, but it would have been with a Sharpie.

As the parents returned from candle lighting, they all had a twinkle in their eyes. Love had not just overwhelmed them, oh no. They had something up their sleeves. They had decided to deviate from plan and hug their children before returning to their seats. We’ve all hugged before, this was nothing new. The MG and The MOB were exploiting the moment of shared glory we had given them to implement their own plans, one last time, without approval, and the dads were right there with them. So mocking, they even told us, “This wasn’t in the plan.” I had my laminated copy right there, and it mostly definitely was not.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART

I sat down, at the church, in my designated holding area. I placed a call to my groomsmen and suggested that maybe they could bring some snacks over for us. A little later, my groomsmen arrived with a bag of snacks, including Hot and Spicy Chex Mix, the perfect wedding-kiss-to-remember accompaniment. We gave high fives and said we were looking sweet. Not one of us could correctly attach a boutonnière; so much for my crafties. The videographer made his appearance, made sure to document the contents of the bag of snacks, and asked my parents for some words of encouragement.

My mom said, “I’ve always wanted a girl and am happy to finally have one.”

My dad, giving his patented head hug and cheek press, said, “He was quite a deal for a blue light special.”

To summarize, I was perhaps their second choice of gender, and I had some redeeming qualities for being deeply discounted merchandise from Kmart. They concluded by saying they were both very proud and loved me very much (implied: despite my man parts and minimal commercial retail value).

I had been planning and helping orchestrate the next part of my life for nine months. Let’s get to it already. Get me wife. Get me on vacation.

Near the end of the pre-wedding downtime, I was joined by Marvin, Christa’s dad. He has never been described as a hugs-and-kisses kind of guy. But he wanted to tell me that he and The MOB were very excited and happy for Christa and me. The true amount of emotion behind his statements wasn’t outwardly obvious, aside from a little shakiness in his voice and what I thought were watery eyes behind his tinted glasses.

I was in a state of anxious delirium and probably sounded like the Tasmanian devil, but responded that I was very excited to be marrying Christa and, thus, joining the Norris family. I then started spinning madly. This was followed by one of those slightly awkward handshake-hug combinations, and the spinning stopped.

It was time to get started. We were lined up behind the secret door. As we got in order and waited for our musical cue to walk into the sanctuary of the church, Matt asked, “Do you have the ring?”

My pits moistened. Boy, that was entertaining. Matt had been given the responsibility of carrying my ring. It had been delayed for as long as possible, because he was my little brother, who had a history of letting people “borrow” things and not keeping good records of the transactions. So his practical joke was made more effective by the slight fear of historical precedence. I laughed but had to consider that he might not have the ring, when it came time to symbolize my union. The possibility existed that he may have outjoked himself. It was go time, so I hoped for the best.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

THE MAGICAL DAY - THE RUNAROUND

My day began with grumblings from the mutant canine that needed to tinkle. I unleashed her from her cage. It was a beautiful morning, pleasant temperature and blue skies. The Lord had heeded my request and asked Mother Nature to spare our special day from the hurricane aftermath.

He had said, “You remember what it was like to be young and in love. Don’t rain on their parade.”

To which Mother Nature replied, “Are you saying I’m old? Maybe I’ll go find myself a creator who appreciates a mature and accomplished woman. It’s not like you’ve been hitting the Ab-Roller lately.”

On all levels, you must respect Womankind.

Both man and beast returned to the house relieved; mine was only mental. I sat down, turned on the TV, and began to organize my first craft project of the day. I had to craft my message of love in blue mini rhinestones on the bottom of Christa’s shoes. This had to be accomplished in time for Danza to deliver them to her, at the two-hour hair appointment all the ladies had scheduled for that morning. There I sat, with a horse that wanted to play and a cone-headed cat that was interested in my rhinestones—but more interested in avoiding playing with the horse. The next twenty minutes of my special day were spent with craft glue and rhinestones just small enough to be unaccommodating for man hands. Ultimately, I completed an “I ♥ U” on one of the shoes and called for a blow dryer. Heat was applied. Then it was time to rouse my best man and begin the day’s errands.

I got a little high-pitch and lispy. “Hello, people, it’s the wedding day. We need to be up, and we need to be organized. The love shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

My brother and Christa share some characteristics, mostly in the extended awakening to departure phase of their days. Here is how Christa and I make it on time to any event:

1. I ask, “How long will it take for you to get ready?” (30 minutes)
2. I multiply her response by her personally adjusted version of the space-time continuum. (1.6 X 30 = 48 minutes)
3. I then add an extra fifteen minutes to that total and subtract that from when we need to leave our house. ( 48 + 15 = 63 minutes)

Over time, I have refined my estimate of her personal adjustment to the space-time continuum to 1.6. The most accurate first read of this factor can be obtained by having her cook mac and cheese, then dividing the length of time she instinctively cooks the noodles by the time printed on the directions.

This extra time before departure allows me to postulate hypotheses on how she could possibly individually affect the space-time continuum, without displaying any outward signs of superpowers. I assume that is why she always bumps into stationary objects. She is playing catch-up with the earth’s orbit, since she exists in a slightly altered dimension, especially in the bathroom.

After that tangent, Matt was now functioning, and we began to load the minivan, now christened the “Love Shuttle.” We had several stops to make and activities all along the way. The first stop was the church, where we were delivering the guest book and pen, unity candle, and programs. We were also meeting up with Jenny, our exceptional bow-tying, pretty-making hired gun, to get the key to the reception hall for our next delivery. Jenny was in transit when we arrived, so we got to rest for a few minutes in the pews.

“I’m tired,” Matt said.

“Get your five minutes now, and we’ll try and get done in time to relax a bit before we need to be back here,” I replied.

He’d been on active duty for what, maybe an hour? So there I was, reclining in God’s house, with a brief moment to reflect on getting married that day.

“Why do I have so much crap to do?” I said out loud.

At some point long ago, I was told all I had to do was smile and be agreeable. I wasn’t told about my checklists, my errands, my battle with a possibly incurable disease (aka the crafties), my kidnapping, and the rest. Weren’t my responsibilities supposed to be over with popping the question? If we are going to find a way to compensate stay-at-home moms, surely we can compensate stay-at-home wedding planners or at least confer on them an Associate’s degree. And where was my beautiful bride? Had she gently risen from bed and stretched to the sweet melody of birds chirping? Might she be on her way to the hair salon to sip champagne and be fawned and cooed over by everyone? When we renew our vows, I’m going to be the bride! Who said I didn’t want to be pretty?

At the reception site, we drove around to the side door of the building to unload. We went in to find a cart we had heard about to move the goods in bulk. The cart was not in the reception hall. It was not anywhere visible. We asked the security guy if he knew anything. He told us to check with the facilities office. It was closed. Holy crap. It was two of us with too much to carry.

I had to use the restroom. As I turned the final corner on my way to the restroom, a beam of light shown down from heaven and illuminated the scene. No, wait. I just happened to glance into a darkened, seemingly deserted hallway and thought I saw the shadowed outline of a wheel of small diameter. The cart had been found! I wasn’t sure if the cart was trying not to be found, so I brought it into the bathroom with me so it wouldn’t sneak off, if the opportunity presented itself. Doubly sweet relief that next thirty seconds was.

We brought in the booze and set out the table-name cards, which began falling off their bases. Monkey balls! Repair was needed. If the crafties hadn’t influenced me to buy a fanny pack, stuff it full of craft supplies for the day’s potential emergencies, and wear it like my soon-to-be-outdated chastity belt, I might have panicked.

The florist came in, needed clarification; I gave it. Favors were out, and Mr. Puddy was displayed. I was on fire. Somebody find me a six-foot block of ice—I’ll use my knitting needles, some Ziploc bags, and this remote-control car engine to create a specialty cocktail spewing lobster. Suck it, Corey!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival