Vegas or Bust
Raising kids without being married worked — until it didn't.
by Madeline Holler
July 12, 2007
What about us? Could this official marriage buffer our relationship against future hardships and doubts? My own parents surprised everyone and split up after thirty-three years of marriage, an outcome few would have wagered on.
Our turn. We approached the window with a flashing light. It was booth No. 7! Lucky 7.
Our clerk, Margie, had clearly processed thousands of these forms. She was efficient but friendly. She seemed genuinely happy for us. This is just a formality, no big deal, I wanted to explain to Margie. I didn't want wistful smiles or to learn the secret handshake of real married couples. I wanted this done.
Wayne felt none of my dread, I could tell. He was chatty, speaking loudly, working the lobby for a few laughs. For Wayne, this ridiculous Vegas wedding mocked the ridiculous marriage requirement. He was even wearing shorts and a plain gray T-shirt. I was in the whitest shirt and skirt I owned.
After stopping for a bouquet of roses, which our four-year-old insisted we get for her to hold, we drove under the awning of The Little White Wedding Chapel to take our vows. A jowly and heavily made-up woman, Rose, greeted us at the drive-thru's sliding window. She took our paperwork and a check for the service ($40). Rose signed on as our witness, though she was absent for the ceremony.
The Rev. David Robinson, a chubby man in his thirties with a crew-cut and wire glasses, slid open the window and gave us a rundown of the ceremony. Soon after, he started in with the expected "we are gathered here," only he sounded like a Southern Baptist calling all sinners to testify. I giggled, an expression of my total discomfort. He finished the short canned ceremony and moved on to the vows. Wayne went first. He repeated after Rev. Robinson the familiar phrases we all learned long ago on TV: "… to have and to hold from this day forward …."
I faded in and out, hearing Wayne, hearing the Reverend, watching Wayne, watching the Reverend, watching the people watching us from the lobby inside. Wayne sounded earnest. I wanted to be earnest too.
"… till death do us part."
Then the Reverend turned to me.
I repeated the same generalized list of what-ifs that have played out more than once in our heretofore unofficial marriage. Good times After stopping for a bouquet of roses, which our four-year-old insisted we get for her to hold, we drove under the awning of The Little White Wedding Chapel to take our vows.and bad? For richer for poorer? We had both loved and loathed our first year as parents. We had survived a helpless battle against a litigious homebuyer. We had adjusted to our personally — but not financially – enriching career changes. We managed the lows. We hardly counted on the highs. Wayne and I loved each other, sure. We even still liked each other. But I suspect we also owe our intact family equally to the dependable relationship glue of inertia, habit, the safety of belonging, and sheer laziness.
That and health benefits.
"Till death do us part," I repeated.
The Reverend pronounced us husband and wife. We kissed. Wayne slid our tip envelope to Rose, who reappeared to snap a few photos. They all wished us luck as we "started our journey" together, complimenting our flower girl, cooing at our still sleeping baby.
"Ready to 'start' our journey?" I whispered. Wayne rolled up the windows.
We stopped for cake and some lunch and then headed home.
©2007 Madeline Holler and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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