We Vowed

I've written about it before, but that was almost three years ago now, and we were just shy of a year in. The last time I wrote about marriage I was answering a question I received over and over in graduate school: What made you decide to get married? I felt an impetus with my replies to not only introduce this incredibly amazing person I am lucky enough to share my life with, but also to re-establish the act of marriage from another perspective, to breath new life into an institution that many people I encountered felt unnecessary, and to show them, as best I could, how a girl who never felt it was a necessity, or a desire really, could be so ready to make that commitment, and be so happy in the wake of the vows.

I encourage you to read that post if you're interested, because even these almost three years later, I still mean every single word. These past few years have been tough, and careers and paths and plans have not been what we hoped, and that life's not clear-cut has made me, at times, a mess of stress and worry.

I second guess choices daily, reevaluating decisions long gone, but I never regret that day on the bluff, the sun setting as my best friend took my hand and we walked down the grass to this song, in the dress my mother made for me, toward the dock and through an aisle lined with brown paper bags filled with wild flowers. We were married by a dear friend in the company of a small group of family and friends while little girls in daisy covered dresses sat on a quilt and giggled at my side. We shared vows we wrote for each other and we made our teary-eyed guests laugh when Andrew's first line announced that he did not fall in love with me at first sight. We celebrated back up the grassy hill through the clapping and smiles of these same friends while this song played. We drank our favorite wine and bourbon with ginger ale, and snacked on radishes topped with butter and pink sea salt. When the sun was gone we moved to the front of the house and sat at long tables filled with family linens and old tins holding more wildflowers, flanking mismatched vintage plates we'd scoured shops for together in the months before. We danced to this song in a small grassy cove under the glow of thousands of white twinkly lights. We dined on food we'd made ourselves, with the generous help of friends, and when our bellies were filled with grilled salmon and roasted vegetables, hummus, beautiful crusty loaves of olive, wheat, rye, and sourdough breads, chocolate chip, and Linzer cookies, and so, so much more, we gathered around a small green table and we fed each other carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and as we took that bite we smiled at each other, and then at our guests, and we felt like the luckiest people alive. We filled baskets with gifts for our guests containing our favorite dark chocolate bars, the ones Andrew brought to me in a small brown paper bag when we'd first begun, wrapped thoughtfully by family with images of our former (tinier and cuter) selves. We stood, surrounded by the people we love, and held tight to each other in a way that we still do.

I'm not one for fussy expensive weddings and so we set out to conquer this one ourselves with the help of our village, and in the end, though it meant resisting well-intentioned suggestions and requests, I married the best guy I've ever met in the most perfect ceremony for us.

In the last line of my vows I declared to Andrew, "I'm in." I still am.