Weddings


Many weddings are in the summer. This

seems reasonable with nice weather and the

bride enjoying a little sunglow to her cheeks.

But one of our children was married in Georgia

in July. It was pretty much like walking

into the bowels of hell and I may have mentioned

it to the bride and groom on more than

one occasion.

January is the least popular month for a

wedding and I see this as a no brainer. Who

wants snow in their slippers? Who wants to

slip in their slippers? Well, I would know, because

another child was married in Austria in

November. It’s snowy, cold and damp there

that time of year, and the person in charge of

warming up the church, didn’t. I’ll just tell

you now that I was spectacularly stunning

with fuzzy yoga pants under my skirt, and

hand warmers in the pockets of my ski parka.

Why can’t my children get it right? I should

be the wedding planner. It could be my side

hustle. I’d have everyone marrying in Georgia

in January when it’s a perfect temp with

no sweating involved, plus, it’s the Bible Belt

so there’s minimal swearing. Summer weddings

could possibly be in Wyoming, with the

bride wearing long johns for undies, and lucky

her, unlike the rest of us, she’d have a veil to

fight the vile hordes of mosquitoes. Side note:

Since we are not in the Bible Belt, mosquitoes

are the jump-starters to our summer swearing.

Fall is the most popular time to wed, with

October being number one. I find this puzzling.

If that’s really true, why is it that I’ve

never seen an orange wedding dress? And

since Seaptember is number two, we should

see camouflage on a cummerbund. Honestly,

call me about your wedding plans. Let me be

of service. I’d get you all fixed up – I’m seldom

right but never in doubt.

When Gar and I first married, I think people

feared we wouldn’t make it because we

were so different. That doesn’t seem to be a

worry anymore because we’re much more

compatible. Now we really are each other’s

type. We’re both chubby and bearded.

When you first say, “I do,” you have to

give each other time to settle in. Nobody is

marriage-worthy in the beginning. It takes

time to figure things out. I recently saw where

two Hollywood actors were splitting up after

only two years of marriage. I was like, “Two

years? Two years!” I screeched to Gar, “They

don’t even know which one of the quirks the

other has they hate the most yet.”

Women want to be nurtured. I really

think men, all their married life, fumble their

way, trying to be romantic but romance does

change somewhat as the years pass. When

I’ve cooked supper, it sets my heart aflutter if

Gar says to me, “That wasn’t the worst meal

we’ve ever had.” Newly married girls want

flowers and flattery. Later we’re tickled when

our guy puts a new end on the garden hose

for us. I’m semi-joking. All women, no matter

the age, want to be told we’re the best thing

that ever happened to our men. Gar tells me he

loves me, but likes to remind me of what my

Gramps said to my Gram once when she complained

he rarely said he loved her, “I told you

when we got married and if it ever changes,

I’ll let you know.”

My man does find ways to endear me.

He built my flower gardens, put gravel in a

mud hole I’d complained about and makes an

amazing chef’s salad when I get home late.

But then again, he’s also a turd …

Once, in Texas having a reunion with our

kids, we were eating at a nice restaurant. Our

waitress looked searchingly at me, and said I

looked familiar. I just smiled. Soon she was

back, and again commented that I looked like

someone, but who? I gave a little, “I dunno”

shrug. On her third pass, she said, “I really

think I should know you.” Finally, she bent at

the waist, scrutinized me, and inquired, “I’ve

seen your face on the cover of something. Are

you famous?” Gar couldn’t resist. With our

kids all ears, he, with an air of importance,

matter-of-factly stated, “Well, she’s too modest

to mention it, but she does write a column

for the Pinedale Roundup.” The kids think

their dad is pretty dang funny. He’s not. I’ve

lived with him 40 years. I should know.

Contact Trena Eiden at [email protected]

com.

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