My head started spinning: We were getting married. And in my ecstatic, excited stupor, as we called our families to tell them the news and quickly refused their seemingly generous offers to help plan (interfere with) and pay for (control) the wedding—we were, after all, adults, we felt, and should plan and pay for it ourselves— I’d simply assumed we’d have something small; a Justice of the Peace; a handful of friends and relatives; perhaps a cocktail party or dinner afterwards to accommodate a slightly larger group of celebrants. I’d assumed that we (Donald at thirty-eight and me at thirty-four; survivors, between the two of us, of nearly eight decades of failed relationships, dashed hopes, aborted dreams), were beyond all that, all the silly nuptial festivities; all the customs and ceremony and ritual; all the tulle and lace and silk and satin.

But I was wrong.

Donald was not beyond all that.

He wanted the pomp, the circumstance, the bells, the whistles.

“So you want to make a public spectacle of our union,” I said sadly, the next morning over coffee at Politics and Prose.

“Weddings are meant to be celebrations,” he’d argued, looking at me as if I were some incredibly rare species that should be caged and put on display: a woman who did not want a big wedding. “They’re meant to be witnessed. All throughout history, throughout every culture, weddings are festive events attended by hordes of friends and family. That is the way of humanity. That is the way of the world.”

I frowned. I could not imagine a bachelor party; interfaithmarriage religious counseling; walking down the aisle together: me, a full foot shorter than Donald; Donald surely bumping his head on low-hanging trellises, flowers, light fixtures, chuppah, if there was one. I tried to explain my superficial misgivings, but he would have none of it.

I didn’t blame him.

“I don’t buy it,” he said, searching my eyes for the truth. “Now tell me the real reason you don’t want a wedding.”

I wished I could have, but it was all too difficult to articulate; impossible to justify. That to me, big weddings with guests and dresses and rented tuxedos and flowers and bands and buffet food stations were for other people. For people who had faith in the future of their happiness; who did not see such a festive event as tempting fate, as an absolute precursor to divorce. So I just said this:

“Weddings scare me.”

And thinking that meant I had a sort of stage fright—a fear of public displays of affection—he scooped me up in his arms and dismissed my fear unilaterally.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of!” he said, as if he knew already just how dark were the depths of negativity in the woman who had just agreed to marry him. “I’ll be with you the whole time!”