Well, I’m married. The wedding
was Sunday. Ms. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) and I tied the knot in front
of The Chapel in the Pines at the Wheatland Music Festival in Remus.
It was a tiny, but lovely ceremony
in a charming, rustic location. My bride was beautiful, the sun was shining,
some of our favorite people were there. Everything was perfect.
Except for my vows.
For weeks leading up to the
wedding, Ms. T (fLF) obsessed over her vows, which we had decided to write
ourselves. She wrote hers out longhand and then rewrote them, practiced saying
them aloud in front of a mirror. For all I know, she hired Morgan Freeman to
serve as her voice coach.
And still, she was so stressed
about reciting her vows on the Big Day that she could barely sleep at night.
I, meanwhile, being a
professional writer and crafter of words to rival The Immortal Bard of
Stratford-upon-Avon, decided I’d just sorta wing it. I had a few ideas in my
head, good ones, but I didn’t bother writing them down.
I mean, c’mon, it’s me!
Ms. T (fLF) felt the same way.
She was certain my vows would be the very essence of romantic poetry,
golden-hued words on a par with anything ever penned by Blake or Keats. She
just knew her vows would rattle like
tin cans clanking together when placed alongside my luminous prose.
I was a shining bastion of
confidence; she was shaking like an oak leaf in an October hurricane.
Right up until the moment the
minister asked us to recite our vows.
I opened my mouth, gazed into the
pellucid, blue eyes of my delicate bride, and utterly lost the ability to speak
English. “D-uh, Lori,” I croaked. Then I mumbled some stuff that made about as
much sense as a presidential candidate’s stump speech. I eventually stuttered
to a halt halfway through a string of random vowel sounds that didn’t quite
qualify as a sentence anyway.
I felt like I’d just gone 15
rounds with Ali in his prime after being suffocated with pillows soaked in
Novocain. To no one’s surprise but my own, I looked like a complete fool.
Then, in a strong, clear voice,
Ms. T (fLF) recited her own vows. They were the best I’ve ever heard and should
be engraved in granite for the edification of future brides and grooms. They
made my disjointed utterances sound like something an inebriated Pee-wee Herman
might bark while welcoming a television audience to his Playhouse.
But the wedding went on and a few
minutes later, Ms. T (fLF) and I were being congratulated and toasted with cheap
champagne.
Turns out there are no “do-overs”
when it comes to wedding vows. Once the ceremony’s over, nobody’s interested in
what you “should have said.”
Still, I’d like Ms. T (fLF) to
know what I meant to say. Which is
this:
“Lori, when it comes to romance
and relationships, I have been around the block so many times I’ve worn a
groove in the pavement. But in the years before I met you, I was simply
coasting through life, never really happy nor sad, just … content.
“You reminded me that contentment
is a terrible thing; that love is not
something to be ‘coasted’ through, but rather a strange and powerful force, one
that inspires and destroys, that builds us up and tears us down, that breaks
our hearts and then heals them again.
“You shook me from my emotional
complacency, dragged me kicking and screaming from my comfortable, dim
purgatory and out into the light of your love. I was uncooperative and
ungrateful.
“But I am grateful now. With you,
I am more than I would ever have been alone. And together, we are amazing.
“You saved my life, Lori, and I
can’t wait to share the rest of that life with you.”
Yup, that’s what I would have
said. What I meant to say.
So … sorry, babe. You married a
writer, not a speaker. I guess you already figured that out, based on the
mumbled jumble of bumble I delivered at the altar Sunday.
If we ever renew our vows, I
promise, I’ll write ‘em down first.
(616) 745-9530
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