With 23 days left to go, Ben and I decided it might be a good idea to take care of the actual “getting married” side of the giant party we’re throwing. This, after all, is the whole point. You’d be amazed how easy it is to lose sight of that fact. So yesterday we headed out to get our marriage license. We arrived at city hall a little late, got fabulously lost, shyly hung back from the information desk while the receptionist stared at us in an expectant though condescending way and, having been turned in the right direction, half skipped half ran to the county clerks office in an attempt to make it there before they canceled our appointment, stole our $60 and declared us too immature to be wed. While dashing down the dark hallway I remember thinking that I neither felt, nor looked like the adult I planned on being by the time I was ready to obtain a marriage license.
We made it on time and soon we were seated on a bench holding an official-looking form. As Ben filled out his section, we cracked stupid jokes, attempting to ease the tension.
“ok, so what did you say your name was again?”
“After this we should go buy t-shirts that say ’I went to city hall and all I got was this crappy marriage license’.”
“Hey Ben, what if they give us a fishing license by mistake?”
“Look at that couple. They’re getting married here, I bet. Wouldn’t it be funny if we got married in what we’re wearing?” I looked at our raggedy jeans and old t-shirts and had to agree. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might have been proper for us to dress up a little for this occasion. We could have had our picture taken on the marble staircase- Ben and Lela looking like the responsible adults they are. Instead we looked more like a couple of grungy teenagers who decided to cut class that day to get a marriage license. “Hey lady, could you hurry it up? I’m late for gym.”
Then it came time to fill out the Bride section of our form and I lost my mind and forgot how to spell both Minnesota and my father’s first name. Fortunately, Ben kept his cool (as always) and spelled the state out for me, though he couldn’t help me with dad’s name. In my defense, I’d like to say that usually I just write Dad when I’m writing to or about him. When an actual name is needed, I write Randy. I can’t remember the last time I had to write his whole birth name, so I made an educated guess and wrote that. I was nervous when we had to swear that the information on our license was correct. Thank goodness she added “to the best of your knowledge”. The last thing in the world I need right now is to be struck down by lightening for lying about a swear.