It’s hard to be whatever you’d call the modern equivalent of a fairy princess for six months — building to the apex of fabulousness in which you wear the BEST DRESS you’ve ever had, partied with the BEST PEOPLE you know, and then linked up for life with the BEST LOVER you will ever meet — and then plunk down back to earth.
Oh, of course there is still the residual glow. Every few nights a box with something very special arrives at our door, and we are thrilled that someone thought so much of us to get us a gift. And the wedding pictures are trickling in from the amazing Alison Peacock, who didn’t leave my side for three days, so each new batch we see is fun and exciting. (And, I secretly hope we get to be part of her “sample” photos so our pictures can live on her website!)
But here is the thing: I’ve waited 42 years to do get married. About five or six proposals, a couple live-in almost-rans, one tentative post-9/11 engagment. That’s a lot of buildup. I thought that I could strike the right balance of the logical with the fantasy, the magical with the practicalities of married tax penalities (seriously, it’s enough to make one consider switching to a heartless, mindless yet fiscally fair political party. I don’t know which one that would be, but I’m thinking of going there).
We came back to our apartment and focused on the dogs (we are training Cinco very seriously, with a guy who trains Homeland Security dogs. I swore that Cinco’s recent mad dash into an intersection at 6 a.m. where he was almost squished by a sedan was his last). And stuff to get rid of. And an article I have due.
I’m not sure what I expected to happen when we got home, after all the euphoria. It was something — different. Stevie didn’t get any richer or more powerful. I didn’t become suddenly sleeker and I had my hair extensions removed. He’s just this guy. And I’m just this girl. And we decided to get married. And we’ll just have to make something amazing happen next.