This wedding has been a long time coming.
Kristie and I met seven years ago, when I was a student at Mount Holyoke College. She: (Wo)manning the register at a hip store downtown, sporting a butch haircut and confidence for miles. Me: Christmas shopping; nervous, having just discovered “The L Word” and my own sexuality.
I got her phone number that night—a miracle since I couldn’t actually speak one word to her as she rang up my purchases (nervous: see above). We met up in January for a night of tea, Snakes on a Plane (don’t judge), and careful attention to the bus schedule back to campus—as in, making sure to miss the last bus home and having to spend the night at her place.
Kristie was at the tail end of a rough break-up, certainly not looking for anything serious. I had recently sworn off women for awhile after my first tryst with a member of the same sex had ended unceremoniously, to my disappointment.
But the next morning, as we were sitting and talking in her kitchen, she made me chocolate chip pancakes. Six years later, as we were sitting and talking in our kitchen, we decided to get married.
Our wedding is in eight days.
Which is not to say it’s been an easy seven years. Like every relationship, we faced trouble and doubt, sadness and time apart. We had met and fallen in love at fairly young ages, respectively, and had to work hard to make sure we were in our relationship because of choice, and not because of the simple (but strong) inertia and comfort of having been together for a long time.
I’m so happy to be in love with her, and am happy for everything we’ve been through (from fears and worries to multiple surgeries, from moving across the state to now planning a wedding—no small task). But that’s the beauty of commitment, isn’t it? Enveloped within it is a promise that the relationship, the hand-holding future, is important to both parties, and they pledge to feed it, take care of it, make it work together.
As our friends and family members start to arrive from around the world, a dress will need to be ironed. Nails will need to be painted; a vest, taken in a little. Ninety bottles of wine and two kegs of beer will be delivered to our venue. Flowers must be arranged. A ceremony, rehearsed. And after a time that I’m sure in retrospect will seem shorter than a breath, two people will be married. I can’t wait for the sweetness of the title and all it brings—“wife,” hers and mine.