Tuesday, August 18, 2015

I got married


The room smells like soap, there's the sound of cocktails being mixed and the Mexican bar staff who 'welcomed us home' - me with a broken tummy - upon our arrival last night.

I have my girl beside me, my wife beside me, reading the novel she bought in the airport yesterday. She’s rapt. I’m happy. I’m married.

And I just saw a lizard being very proud of itself outside.

=

I could worry for a living and I did my share of it in the weeks before last Thursday.

What if I trip up and rip the arse of my trousers? (didn’t happen)
What if someone gets so drunk they’d puke everywhere and shut down the dancefloor? (didn’t happen)
What if I butcher my vows? (didn’t happen)
What if my phone starts buzzing as she nears the top of the aisle?

That one came to pass.

Thanks for that, LinkedIn.

I reached into my jacket, flicked it to silent, turned to my left and she was there, being more beautiful than even I’d imagined and the paterfamilias proudly urging me to take care of her, now.

My grandfather used to tell me that worrying never solved a problem and, even if something bad happens, worrying about it beforehand makes you experience it twice. I'd worried a lot that everything would not be perfect. Silly stuff, and the day was full of joy.

My favourite people in one room, all of them on our side. My parents and my sisters and their husbands and my nephew, who rose to thank the audience for the applause as we entered the dining room, every brilliant 24 months and one day of him.

And her parents, so close to me, where she gets her character from. My girl. Never ‘the wife.’ Always my wife. Always my girl.