Here Comes the Bride

I’m getting married in 12 days. Until recently, the gravity of this hadn’t really hit me. I’ve been living with Lord Kissington for about 3 years; it just seemed like we were putting a legal structure to something that already exists. And I’ve had rather ambivalent feelings about getting married, because I find it fundamentally unjust that only heterosexual couples can get married. But we decided to do it, and I got caught up in the whole planning juggernaut and completely lost sight of the fact that I am marrying an actual person.

Last week, I received a memo at work asking us to update our contact info for HR. I had to put down an emergency contact, so I wrote down Lord Kissington’s info. The last line asked you to identify the contact’s relationship to you, so I wrote “husband as of 3/11.” And then it hit me. I’m going to have a husband. I don’t really feel old enough to have a husband, although technically, I am well within the age range at which most people take a husband (far past it, if you listen to some of my relatives). When I was younger, I thought that married people all lived in the suburbs, ate dinner at 6 p.m., and lived extremely dull lives. And I just don’t see myself doing this. I still feel like a kid so much of the time. When I had my nails done on Saturday, I went with the cool, totally work-inappropriate blood red instead of a sensible pale pink or peach. I still drink too much on the weekends (and, ummh, weekdays). I cling to my fading punk rock cred.

Yet, I can’t ignore the fact that I am getting older. My friends are having babies and being audited (the latter is firm proof that we’re not getting any younger: a teenager can have a baby, but I’ve never heard of a teenager being audited). Now I’m getting married. And I haven’t been a rock show in at least six months. What’s next? Stretch waist pants? A move to some far away suburb because you can get more house for your dollar out there? Buying a minivan? I just can’t fathom it.