Hitched!
◊ I got married!
The Pride Club at De Anza had a fake-marriage fundraiser, holding marriage ceremonies out in the quad with fancy certificates and Polaroids for a minimal fee. I had it on my calendar ("11 a.m.: GET MARRIED") and had three fianc�(e)s and everything.
Owen proposing. Awww.
I married Owen first. We handed over three bucks, spelled out our names and marched up the makeshift red carpet to the drag queen reverend.
I never played marriage as a kid, never played house, never had Barbie propped up next to Ken for the quick "I do" before they hit the little plastic bed in the Malibu Dream House, so I wasn't exactly prepared when the officiator started reading the very real script of an actual wedding ceremony.
I clutched Owen's hand and stared into his eyes as I recited the Big Scary Vows, doing my damnedest not to let the butterflies in my stomach loose all over his shoes. I hadn't felt that nervous since my first ride on a rollercoaster when I was 12. I was glad — damn glad — that I was losing my vow virginity to one of my best friends.
Exchanging vows. I'm laughing, by the way, not trying to bite his arm off.
We swapped rings (I fumbled a little like a nervous groom) and went for the theatrical kiss, making Jon the news editor, the man with the camera, flip out because he'd missed the shot. Hah. So there.
I married Sarah five minutes later. Smooth as anything, she paid the wedding fee and we paraded up the aisle. We did the sweet chaste puckered-lips kiss. Yay.
Then Adrian! By my third wedding, I had it down. The organizers still couldn't spell my name, but who cares! I was riding a wave of nuptial bliss. No wonder Liz Taylor was so hooked on marriage; I wasn't even getting housewares and I was still happy as a, well, leering bride. Adrian makes the world's cutest possible bride: sparkling eyes, big grin, squeaks of delight — the whole nine.
Adrian and I: the kiss