Ingrid and I were married ten years ago today, on November 12, 2005. Of course, we were also married in February of 2004, and in June of 2008… It’s one of the things about being a same-sex married couple in the early 21st century: because of the changing laws about same-sex marriage, a lot of us had a lot of weddings. But the one on November 12, 2005 is the one we tend to think of as our “real” wedding. It didn’t have any legal standing whatsoever — it was technically a “commitment ceremony,” our friend Rebecca officiated, and at the end, she said, “By the power vested in me by Ingrid and Greta…” But it was the one where we wrote our own vows; the one with the big party with our families and friends; the one with the dresses and the flowers and the dancing and the cake; the one with the invitations and programs and bouquets designed by our friends; the one with the music played by our friends; the one with the parents making toasts, the siblings and best friends making speeches and singing songs. It’s the one that wasn’t snatched in haste at City Hall, wondering if and when it was going to be taken away from us, squeezing ourselves into a window that we knew could be closing again any day. November 12, 2005 is the wedding we made for ourselves.
I still do, sweetie. Happy anniversary.
I wrote this piece before the wedding, and we put it into our wedding program. I’m reprinting it here today.
It Isn’t Like That
by Greta Christina
“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”
-William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
She is not the sun and the moon and the stars, and she is definitely not my sole reason for living. I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night for many reasons, of which her existence is only one. She is not all I can think about; I spend time thinking about work, and friends, and what to have for dinner, without too terribly much trouble. I don’t feel the earth move or the sky fall, although I do feel a bit like I’ve been conked on the head by a giant vaudeville rubber mallet. I can talk to other people when she’s around, and I can keep my hands off her if I have to. I don’t feel that every minute spent without her is wasted, and there is at least some sunshine when she’s gone. I do not believe we were destined to meet, or that my life would be empty, or hollow, or even incomplete, without her. And her eyes, while large and lovely and the color of the ocean on a dark day, are, in fact, nothing like the sun, except in that they are big and round and bright. It isn’t like that.
It’s just that I grin and giggle and blush when I think of her, and sulk when she’s far away. It’s just that I feel a cold terrified rage at the thought that anyone, myself included, might hurt her. It’s just that I feel brave when I’m with her; not brave enough to slay dragons, but brave enough to feel what I feel and say what’s on my mind, which for me is plenty brave. It’s just that she knows what I mean, and I know what she means; not always, not as if we were soul-sisters or psychically linked, but enough, and much more than enough. It’s just that so many of the things that are good about her are things that are good about myself, things I would be happy to have grow stronger from being in her presence. It’s just that there isn’t anyone else, not even gorgeous movie stars, that I’d rather have in my bed. It’s just that a part of me that is hard and cool and distant, a part I rely on but don’t much care for, turns into oatmeal when I think about her. It’s just that I feel that my life is not entirely in my own hands, and, rather uncharacteristically, am not feeling that this is a problem. It’s just that she’s smart and funny and thoughtful and cheerful and playful and good and sexy and beautiful, and it feels like a miracle — not a huge miracle, just a small one — that she seems to see me the same way.
I like it this way better. Much.