Elvis

I was never thrilled about the idea of a big wedding. 

First of all, I had this fantastical dream that I could perhaps marry someone without ever letting them meet my family.  Whenever I imagined a wedding, it seemed like a problem.

Second, I’m a fan of the kind of weddings they do in the little town I grew up in: cheap ones with lots of screaming children.  I think it’s a way to prepare for actual marriage. 

I watch the wedding shows on television just to hoot and holler about the idea of spending so much money in a single day.  I would be too nauseous to enjoy myself.  However, I will add that I tremendously enjoy going to other people’s huge parties.

Third, once my father was dead there was no point.  I could not have the perfect dream girl wedding and that was that.  There would be no walking down the aisle, no father/daughter dance.  And my philosophy throughout life has been if you can’t have perfection, then fuck it.

So when I met the man of my dreams there was no question that it was going to be something different.

I met him at the bowling alley, first of all.  I saw the shape of his back, his long legs and broad shoulders, and that was it for me.  The fact that he had three balls was not a problem.

I danced, sang karaoke, and did an obnoxious mating ritual to gather his attentions.  Fifty-two weeks of bowling on Saturdays, just to see him.  And then he called.  After hanging up I laid down on the floor, screamed “Woohoo,” laughed, yelled “Finally!”

He moved in the night of our first date.  I know that seems a little irresponsible, a little wacky, but 15 years after the fact it’s a relatively moot issue.  It was clear that we were meant to be. 

Did I mention he was living with someone else at the time?  He went home to tell her and pack his clothes.  He rented an apartment and paid the lease for an entire year without ever sleeping there.

His sons were not entertained.  So we put off getting married until they might be more accepting.  Two years went by, then three.

I called him at work one day and said, “I got overpaid in my check this week for some reason.  I’m buying tickets to Las Vegas and we’re going to get married by Elvis.  Okay?”

He liked the idea.  He’s kind of unbelievable that way.

The limo was less than glamorous, a bit well-worn.  I was ridiculously nervous.  He wore jeans and a blue pull-over, something that could later double as an outfit for mowing the yard. 

Elvis was fantastically cheesy.  He sang to us and wore a white one-piece jumpsuit.  We had the younger version, not the heavier set one.  You can check out the scene at www.gracelandchapel.com.

A year and a half later our daughter was born.  While at the hospital he received a call from his closest friend at work.  “Where are you?” 

“Where do you think I am?”  “I don’t know.” 

“I’m at the hospital having a baby.”  “You mean you’re married?”

Sometimes it’s the quiet ones you have to look out for.

Viva Las Vegas!