The Wedding Story

The labors of love

Here it is. It’s the room I’ve seen in the photograph. It’s my favorite color, jade. High ceilings and frescoed walls. The composition depicts scenes of domestic life and work in the fields. The celebrant explains the bucolic settings and the representations of labor throughout the changing seasons — an allegory of married life.

The room is dense with the scent of flowers. Roses and lilies everywhere: in the centerpiece on the oak table at the center of the room, and the bouquets in the guest’s arms. On both sides of the long, polished table, two rows of high-back chairs covered in green velvet are perfectly aligned. At end of each row, one chair is embroidered with two entwined wedding bands. These are our chairs. We’re asked to take a seat with a testimony each at our side. The best man is carrying the silk box that contains the wedding bands. He blushes violently as he sits next to my soon-to-be husband and his witness.

Here we go. The ceremony begins. With flushed cheeks, I grip my bouquet of roses and smile idiotically, looking around me. The room is filled with benevolent faces all smiling idiotically, like me. The best man has turned the color of a red chilli pepper. He fidgets and turns the box with the rings, around and around between his trembling hands.

I’m smiling energetically to conquer the butterflies in my stomach. Whenever I feel the adrenaline turn to panic, I look at my lover. He sits opposite me and smiles back at me mildly, perfectly at ease with the situation. While I’m burning up, he’s cool, calm and collected. This is it.

Now the celebrant asks the fateful question. “Sì,” my husband says and nods. I take a deep breath, “Lo voglio!” I declare. The witnesses sign the register and now, the best man is standing, with shiny eyes and a face as red as a traffic light, next to the celebrant. He unties the ribbon of the precious parcel. We exchange rings, we kiss, and the room bursts into applause.

The reception

It’s just like after a rock concert. Everyone has gathered around us, offering roses and gifts wrapped in colorful foil. Back in the courtyard, we pose at the center of the 1850 colonnade. While the photographer snaps the pictures, instead of throwing confetti our guests blow clouds of soap bubbles. In them, the sun reflects hundreds of rainbows.

I embrace my husband and hold on tightly to his arm — not only because I’m not used to walking in these vertiginous heels. My other arm is laden with flowers. I feel like I’ve just won a beauty contest. For the first time in my life, I gladly pose before the camera. Triumphant. I don’t recall having ever experienced such a deep sense of contentment and achievement at the same time. It’s all new to me, but it feels divine.

People later told us what fun it was. Short and sweet. They said it was the most original wedding they’d ever seen. Home-grown. Original. But why? Because I wore an orange velvet coat and fishnet stockings instead of a white gown? Because our wedding rings aren’t a set? Because I designed a chocolate wedding cake with edible flowers on top? Because of the soap bubbles? Because we had the hens’ and buck’s night together? Because we walked across Piazza Riforma to the reception, instead of taking off in a limousine?

In any case as the cliché goes: it was the happiest day of my life! Not only did everything run smoothly, for once. But also, I was impeccably groomed and managed to stay that way all day long. My hand in my husband’s hand — I couldn’t stop admiring the new diamond-studded ring on my finger. And as if it couldn’t get any better, I got to have my cake and eat it too — while drinking Champagne. Life doesn’t get any better!

After all the anxiety of the preparations, the effort and determination paid off. My prize was to sit back, relax and enjoy the limelight. But without the loving support of our dear friends, our wedding would never have turned into such a happy celebration. From the very start, they pitched in and lent a helping hand. From the best man to the witnesses, the chauffeur, the photographer, the one who organized the hen’s night, the friend who took me shopping, the makeup artist and all the others who, against our wishes, showered us in flowers and gifts.

There were flowers, flowers, flowers. Even the banquet table had a centerpiece of blooming roses and lilies. More flowers were delivered in baskets, to our home. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to keep any. The following morning we were leaving on our honeymoon, so I gave them away. Except for my bouquet, which I took home for safe-keeping.

In the end, M. the high school friend, showed up for the civil ceremony but stood next to the exit and left immediately, while everyone was blowing strings of perfect bubbles in the courtyard. “Who was that older woman standing by the door. Your mother?” I laughed. “No. Someone I went to school with.”

Our friends who, throughout our romantic quest had been supportive and generous, once more gave proof or their big hearts. Once the cheery assembly had toasted one more time to our happiness, we were treated to one more gift. Between them all, they’d collected a total amount, in travel vouchers, which added up to an airfare to Australia. “You guys are incredible, how can we ever thank you!” My husband was elated, “Wow, we can go to Melbourne!”