I almost just gave myself a black eye. Coming in from a snack outside, I slipped on the top step of 5, pitched forward, and managed to land, shaken, on both feet, as two security guards rushed forward to catch me. Had I fallen on my nose, as gravity was certainly inclined to ensure, I might have been sporting a charmingly black rim under one or both of my eyeballs.
Which really wouldn’t have looked good in about two hundred photographs that will be taken this weekend. Which is precisely what was going through my mind as a determinedly threw my Frye-clad feet towards carpeted ground and willed them to land without breaking or buckling.
Because this morning, we went to City Hall to apply for our marriage license. I wish I could say the place was charming and everyone was sunnily filling out forms with speed and efficiency. Not the case, I’m afraid. The Marriage License room is dank, the paint hasn’t been retouched since about 1964 when Dull Orange was certainly the shade du jour, and the clerks are likely to stop halfway through your case to eat something from the next desk over, chat with a coworker, or learn the art of basketweaving. There were as many pregnant minors sullenly getting shepherded to their sudden marriages as there were childless of-age couples, like Stuart and I. It was depressing.
After a couple of hours and a lot of kissing to make up for the hassle, Stuart and I emerged from City Hall to eat a bagel and throw pieces of my bagel at a small gathering of sparrows. We’ve been told, by several people that have gotten married at City Hall, that the marriage ceremony section of the process is a good deal cheerier. And we’ve promised each other to keep our spirits up, and have a good time on Monday, when we return with my parents and brother to be legally wed.
In the meantime, though, we’re busy. We’re buying the ingredients for the sangria tonight. Then my brother arrives, on his birthday, and tomorrow morning we’re meeting Kate and Shiv in Brooklyn for breakfast and mani/pedi time for the girls. Then we have an apartment to rearrange, to somehow accomodate 40 people for a party. My parents arrive in the afternoon with flowers and supplies and love, then we have to pick up all the food at the local Brasilian restaurant and go pick up Biscuit and his marvellous cake. And then we get pretty. And then we have guests. And then we cut cake and say things to each other that are cheesy and will probably make everyone throw up in their own mouths a little but I don’t care because we’re getting married.
On Monday. On Monday, we put on our pretty suits and frocks, drive down to the courthouse with minimal driving-nightmare arguements, and we get hitched. Married. Legally wed. Monday night, after we’ve kissed my family goodbye, we have a beautiful dinner at Babbo to revel in our newly-ringed selves.
Did I mention the rings? We bought them last week, at Tiffany’s. They’re 3 millimeters of shiny gold beautifulness. We looked at them last night, practiced the putting-on-of-rings, and talked about vows and weddings and happiness.
Here it is. The weekend we get married, and celebrate with as many people could be here, at such short notice. And then, next week, we’re off to Maine for three days.
Forgive me for not posting often. I think you can understand why.
See you on the flip side of matrimony, people.

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