I don’t care…

…was the theme of my wedding and I am guessing, the reason I am no longer married!

At 26, I met my husband through some friends during a time in my life that I worked hard and played hard. Credit cards were stretched to their limits and drunk was often my state of mind. I had a lot of fun with him, we could talk about anything, and he was Catholic and needed to be married and have a church wedding. (this should have clued me in, but I was in love, aka: idiotic)

I was proposed to after a night of sheer debauchery at both a strip club and a gay bar,with friends and more Long Island Ice Tea’s than I can recall. My apartment was small, and when he came out of the bathroom and got on one knee, I thought he was getting sick and totally freaked. I don’t do sickness. So, he proved his well-being and pulled out a small box and my stomach hit the floor. He was doing it. It was happening. To me.

I am NOT a typical girl who dreamed of a princess wedding with tons of people eating shrimp cocktail and dancing all night. Never thought about a wedding dress, bridesmaids, parties, even presents. And, I love presents. But, nothing about a wedding mattered to me. I did it for him and his parents, who needed a priest and Jesus to be in attendance. I obliged, because, yep, I didn’t care.

The date was scheduled for a Friday in the middle of the day–to deter working people from coming. I didn’t care. My dress was a prom dress and cost less than the undergarments I needed to fit in it. I didn’t care. I had my best friend as my only bridesmaid and told her to just pick a dress. What color? I didn’t care. The lady in charge of weddings at the church asked about rehearsal time. I told her it was unnecessary, because I don’t care and I am sure we will figure it out. She didn’t like it, but she begrudgingly obliged.

On the morning of my wedding I took two Xanax and smoked a joint. My Mom and our family friend took me to get coffee and a McGriddle, and then my close friend and stylist came over for wine, hair and makeup–something we did a lot in our early twenties. I looked fantastic, but it wasn’t special in any way. A joint on the drive to the church because I drove myself, and parked my Honda Accord in the very front of the Catholic church. I didn’t care. It was my wedding. My car is in almost all the pictures of the ceremony. I didn’t care.

We do the God thing. His parents are happy. My parents are stoked I didn’t want a princess wedding. And, I am just ready to get those expensive, tight undergarments off my sticky, sweaty, apathetic body. Despite the discomfort, I made it through the visiting and picture-taking and thanking everyone. We even cut the cake. The cake I didn’t care about, but it was beautiful and tasty.

My Dad’s smile when I said, ‘wrap it up, folks!’ was so big that I think his pacemaker probably was triggered. He hated that stuff as much as I do. I quickly get behind the scenes to change. My new, sweet husband is with me and was quickly initiated into the intricacies  of getting a 250 pound woman out of super sucker spandex underwear. I made t-shirts for our departure; mine said, ‘JUST’ and his said ‘MARRIED’! It proved to be quite the foreshadowing of a failed marriage, but it was funny, and I didn’t care.

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