On Thursday morning, J booted up his laptop and urged me to read a review of the Punta Cana resort we'll be visiting in July for the W. I acquiesced, so long as he brought me a cup of decaf hazelnut already (yes, I'm off the caffeine again. More on that later.)
It was an amazingly thorough review. The couple had just gotten married there in October, and the groom provided every detail of the entire affair, all rainbows and sunshine and la la la most perfect day ever!
Then I read this gem:
You will meet with the photographer approx. two hours before the ceremony.
And then I freaked out. Ever so slightly.
"Oh no!" I whined. "No, no, no! J! This is awful!"
The horror, the trauma: wedding photos taken two hours before the ceremony? With family? And friends? And J?!?
I know we are fairly unconventional, but Christ. This is my moment; this is J's moment. Our moment. It's supposed to be beautiful and romantic and memorable. It's that second when J sees me from afar looking stunning and angelic and virginal (shut up), walking down the aisle to meet him and pledge my undying devotion to him. His eyes are supposed to well up with tears, y'all. Tears!
And so with all of my melodramatic histrionics here, you can imagine that ole HV was not too keen about having The. Moment. in the hotel lobby, before the ceremony. It's so unnatural, and mechanical, for the sake of the photos.
J assured me that we would could do it differently, and then I sniffed and wiped at my eyes and sat in the kitchen and sighed wearily.
"Happy Thanksgiving, babe," J said.
Beat.
"You know, I'm really glad you and me hooked up."
And then I laughed, hard, and agreed with him.
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