 My
Damn Wedding Cake
I'm not a fan of weddings. I find them overblown and boring —
requiring way too much planning and anxiety for way too little fun. I'm not even that big
a fan of marriage, even though I enjoy my current one. But I was trapped
into looking at pictures from a Las Vegas wedding -- a boy, his girl, and their
carload of friends -- a jovial romp.
They reminded me of my own first
marriage — a romp ruined. It was 1972 or so (I always had a problem remembering the
date). Paul and I had been living at an alternative
residential school that was also a commune. When the place started getting
legal attention, Paul decided we should leave and then decided we should get married. (This was after he'd decided I wouldn't accept my fellowship to Stanford because…
oh hell, I can't remember… something about its being irrelevant.)
He'd once been married to a
woman who ran off with a commune friend, so he was no fan of the big wedding. I was simply relieved that I finally had a relationship
not complicated by a lot of Ayn Rand horse-hockey and excuses for either
no sex or sex with everyone.
We could have done something fun -- a
write-your-own-vows hippie wedding with our friends. But no, we
went to his parents' house. We moved in with his parents. They were stern,
aggressive, self-righteous people, who had good reasons for not liking Catholics. They
reduced me to speechlessness and constant sneezing.
I didn't want the wedding of the century, but I did
figure it was still My Day. And I was led to believe I'd have some say over the
festivities. But suddenly there we were, after
the blur of a minimalist courthouse transaction, sitting in their kitchen having another in a long
series of boiled chicken dinners. How could I have chosen this?
I do remember with stinging clarity that his
mother asked me what kind of cake I wanted. I told her whipped cream — I
longed for this indulgence after 2 years of eating commune health food. She said okay, then went and bought a
nice apple pie. I felt betrayed and homesick for my own parents (who
got the last minute phone call hey we're getting married this Saturday but who
would have loved chomping a whipped cream cake with me).
We traveled down to St. Louis for a post-wedding
celebration. I baked in a long wool dress and it
rained like hell and dozens of cousins squeezed into my parents' small house.
My cousin B gave me a lingerie shower and I had
no idea how to pretend to appreciate a dozen sets of lime green baby-doll
pajamas. Still, I had a good time -- lots of laughter and lots of gooey
cake, not a boiled chicken in sight.
Anyway, my toast to those who make merry. And my advice to the meek who can't manage to wrest a whipped cream
cake's worth of fun out of their in-laws: second time around, go to Las
Vegas with your pals. 11.30.99 |