An Ever-Fixèd Mark

I've been married for eight-ish years and still crave my guy with a ferocity as unbridled and tender as the maddest of mad first love.

Ok, I'm not saying that the shit hasn't hit the fan, nor am I suggesting that my life with him is a fairy tale (but I'm not suggesting that it isn't a fairy tale, either).

Our marriage ceremony was bell and whistle-less. My wedding dress bore boot-cut pant legs and was made of Levi denim....My husband's tuxedo looked much the same as my "dress".

We had no family in attendance, no "song" to dance to, no head table, no champagne, no groomsmen, bridesmaids, flowergirls or ringbearers, and no cake or photographers.

My most vivid family recollection is that of my mom crying on the morning of the *uhm* wedding(?). I wrestled with guilt just hours before the matrimonial leap, having feared that I'd somehow failed my mother.

In the end, I did it my way. Our way.

The ceremony was purple microdot clear, like the perfect acid trip - crisp, yet surreal. The gentleman who bound us in holy-less matrimony was one of the coolest people I've ever met; a free-spirited marrier of gay couples, heathens (comme moi) and other "fringey" freehearts shunned by the tight-assed folk of the far right persuasion.

While I do wish that I could have somehow satisfied the want (or perhaps worry) of my Mom - I don't, for a second, regret limiting the affair to Bride and Groom. Unclouded by the expectations of others, the moment was ours - and ours alone.

It was both magical and liberating.

That's it.
Pudsy