museum of my marriage

I’m tempted to give my mother-in-law the marriage certificate, my ring, and the dress – humble as it was – for inclusion in her remarkable display: “A Marriage Dissolved but Ongoing In This House.” These artifacts might find their only use in further illustrating our once entwined life, as portrayed in image after image hung or propped in house. There we are on the mantle in Maine, Alex leaning against me. On the wall by the dining room table, we’re captured in all of our tight nerves on our wedding day. The fridge has me after Bea’s birth, flushed with love, and another of Alex in the park with Bea the day before Thomas’ birth. In a plexi frame on the bureau in the guest room, we’re posed with our dog, who is now decrepit. Along the stairwell, we stand in a tux and long black gown at his sister’s wedding, more dressed up and posh than ever before or since. I was the tall blonde shiksa that day; what an unexpected delight.

We are everywhere – courting, engaged, married, expecting, with children. We are mid 20s. We are 30. We are approaching 40. We are a year ago. We are in Israel, France, California, Seattle, Maine, Iowa. We are very much WE, still “us.”

There is no image of us coming apart, though I looked for telltale signs, the photo that gave a hint of things to come. I couldn’t find it. Only sadness at seeing us reproduced so many times when now I want to stand in my own frame, with only my children as points of reference.

i do

“I know this sounds vain, but I think I’m going to have the hairdresser do Eric’s hair, too. I do his nails, so that’s not a problem.”

So said the bride-to-be to her mother while sitting next to me in the coffee shop. (I’m a shameless eavesdrop.) The young woman, chiseled and trim, had already discussed the couch set they’re registering for, the $1,000 her grandmother is giving her, the tuxes from JC Penny’s, the song list that will be backed up on their iPods in case anything goes wrong, whether or not to allow children to the reception, and the fact that the guest registry will match the pattern on the invitations.

Man, so glad I’m not doing that. I’d take a few Os….. indeed, but hold the white dress and the guest book. And for god’s sake, hold the groom’s manicure!

I’ve become a bit obsessed about weddings. What’s their purpose in our culture, or as a milestone in our lives? I can’t imagine myself getting  married again – or so I think. And then I find myself making a promise to myself that if I ever do it again, I’ll definitely feel pretty since the first time I felt awkward at best. Even if you’re not the Big White Dress type – and I’m really really not – weddings still hold some sway.

I’ve been to some bad weddings, or more so, weddings that didn’t feel authentic. One where our friends, who had told us they definitely didn’t want children, were caught unawares by a rabbi who started talking about kids. There was my ex-boyfriend, a devout atheist, whose bride insisted on not one but two ministers to usher them into their relationship of three (it took me awhile to figure out that the third was Jesus). There was another wedding on an island where in the midst of the outdoor ceremony, a three-legged basset hound suddenly appeared from behind a tree. He stared at the couple, who were about to exchange vows, then turned and walked by under the tree. I wonder if they’re still together, or if he cursed them.

The most beautiful wedding I’ve been part of was last summer on the beach in Malibu. It was two friends, both in their sixties, with their children, grand kids and grand dogs in attendance. Fourteen children, Bea included, bedecked in bells and orchid garlands led them onto the beach like a little swarm of love groupies. Friends of all faiths spoke. Everyone stood or sprawled in the sand wearing everything from tuxes to saris to Bermuda shorts. One guy wore a lei and a glittering t-shirt that pronounced “Obama is my homeboy!”

There was a lot of money behind the shindig, and yet the whole evening was without pretense. I’ve always been somewhat partial to my own wedding, which was in a park in Seattle at the height of spring. It was humble and kind-hearted. But now it also seems the effort of such terribly young hearts and minds. There was so much we didn’t know. We were soooooo earnest.

This beach wedding, however, was all about eyes wide open. My friends (dare I call them elders?), K and M, stood together in total authenticity, without presumptions about this thing called “marriage”. They’d both done it before and had thought – as I do now – that they wouldn’t do it again. But suddenly there was a yearning for their families to be tied together. That lovely silken knot that is marriage at its best. Could it be that marriage is wasted on the young? Or am I just getting cranky?