The real stuff always has a way of coming out.  This can be good or bad, depending on how much a person has to hide.  For most of my life, I’ve been a hider: pretending to be who I thought I should be, keeping up a careful exterior while my insides raged with the frustration of never showing through.  My unvalidated inner self broke through the ruins of failure, and since then I’ve spent (a little) less time fretting over people’s opinion of me and more time learning to laugh at myself. An invaluable talent, and one that my new husband (!) has helped me perfect. Life is way too short to be taken so seriously…and so are weddings.

I’ve already recounted how the storms in my belly and the sky rumbled violently up until the ceremony, reminding me once again (will I ever not need reminding?) that the world (believer version: God) does not take its cues from my script.  But by the time six pm rolled around, I was riding high on a non-hangover cloud that allowed me the relief of letting go in a way my intact, hydrated self never could have.  Mixed blessings!  Suddenly it didn’t matter if I got married in the rain, if the wind messed up my hair, if there was lipstick on my teeth.  Against all odds and past dating choices, I was getting married.  To a man who managed to be both one of the best human beings I know and perfect for me, facts at odds with each other until you mix in some grace.  In front of everyone I love, preceding a kickass party.  What’s a little thunder in the face of that?

(And no, the irony of not reaching this realization until after eight months of stress and planning is not lost on me.  But…baby steps, dammit!)

When I think back over that blissful night, I remember the moments I stood in the midst of this once-in-a lifetime event and willed myself to be still, shut up, and take it all in as a memory of pure joy.  These moments, strung together now in a mind not addled by champagne or adrenaline, have blessing and redemption and love written all over them.  And one other thing–the beauty of a story that is written by the most personal author imaginable.  Because that was the glory of our wedding: not that it went perfectly (thank you, expensive sound system that refused to function) but that it perfectly represented us, every last second of it. From the Scripture to the poetry, the dancing to the mashed potato bar, the cacophony of a room full of laughing loved ones to the quiet moments upstairs eating dinner by candlelight as a freshly minted and divinely ordained married couple.  Every moment spoke of us, and our very existence speaks of Him.  So…win win.

And then there’s the honeymoon, which spoke of us privately but perfectly as well.  We flew to St. Lucia on a plane full of newlyweds, most younger than us (good luck with that) and fiddling with their new wedding bands.  Our first four nights were spent at Jalousie Plantation.  Picture private multi-room villa with deck and plunge pool, shower the size of my old New York apartment, two bathrooms (one the size of my old New York apartment building), and a bed so luxurious I almost cried as I measured the various mattress toppers and feather beds to be wider than my jazz hand.  Our villa was placed up high in a rain forest while the beach was situated between the two Pitons, the tallest mountains on the hilly island.  As other couples scrambled to sign up for snorkeling and rainforest hikes, we sat on our happy asses with a drink flag drilled into the sand beside us and books in our hands, only getting up to pee or eat.  Neither required much traveling.

We chose to spend our last three nights at Sandals because, as mentioned above, we enjoy laughing.  A driver picked us up at Jalousie’s reception area and quoted us an hour-long ride.  For the next hour and forty-five minutes, we endured more hairpin turns and roller-coaster ups and downs than all my high school and college relationships combined.  I closed my eyes and squeezed The Husband’s hand while my face turned as green as the morning of my wedding day and I prayed even harder than I had then not to puke.  I wept tears of joy when I (a) found some Orbit gum in my purse and (b) the driver threw in a Jimmy Buffet CD.  Salvation, thy name is distraction.

We unloaded at Sandals and ran headlong into its cheese castle of coupledom.  At Jalousie, we were greeted with fruit punch, a quiet lobby, and the two restaurants’ hours.  At Sandals, we were invited to a street party that night in the parking lot and told to enjoy one of the the poolside bars while our room was prepared.  And once we got to said pool, a mass of g-string and tattoo-clad flesh bid us hello.  But so did an all-day nacho buffet. Compromise.

Jalousie was a picture of quiet isolation, which we appreciated both as introverts and as we recovered from our wedding week.  Sandals was a grounded cruise ship, full of constant entertainment (other guests among the best examples) and activities: DJ by the pool (this is a place that deems Sir Mix-A-Lot appropriate honeymoon entertainment), swim-up bar with patrons who imbibed liters of alcohol yet suspiciously never moved from their seats, Jet-Skis whizzing through rarely placid waters.  Then there was the night when we decided to stick our head in the door of the resort’s nightclub.  Excuse me, The Palladium Club.  We took in the room full of two-seater tables filled with drunk honeymooners, then the stage dominated by a person of questionable gender belting out “I Will Survive.”  We immediately ducked out, grasped hands, and headed to the solace of our room, The Husband summarizing as we walked:  “Well that was a tragic scene.”

Sandals sent us all back to the one international airport in multiple shuttles, and while working our way through the departure process we saw many of the same people from our flight down, one week tanner and more married.  Some looked hungover, some looked tired, some looked like they had spent one too many nights at The Palladium Club.  But after DMV-length ticket and security lines and an hour delay, The Husband and I were still finding plenty of things to laugh about.  A feat I would never accomplish on my own, mind you.  Eight months of wedding planning, a temporarily stormy wedding day, hours of travel, and we still have our senses of humor (though often he has to lend me some of his when I run out).  I think we crazy kids might just make it after all.

Thank God.  I could never go through all that again.