|It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well...|
We were getting ready for that big world on the other side of the valley and the wedding seemed like the first step towards being real deal adults. I went to Target and picked out a waffle-iron from their registry, wrapped it in pink-paisley paper and signed both our names on the card. It made you all sorts of nervous.
We were driving out of Dayton in your beat up truck, dressed in Hawaiian casual as the invitation prompted. That waffle-iron was looming between us, and you told me you never wanted to get married. I rolled my eyes when you weren't looking and asked you why. You went off about it being an institution and unnecessary for proving love and a bunch of other useless stuff. You could've just said it was the waffle-iron in the center seat and the fact that we were seventeen and you were scared and young and didn't want me getting wedding fever. Because darling, I knew all that already.
So I was laid back and cool while I watched the bride stepping out of her mama's car like a big, tulle cream puff. And I didn't make you dance too much. And I didn't mention "us" that often. We watched hand in hand as the shirtless football player ran down the aisle lighting tikki torches and the guys discoed their way to the altar in flip-flops and the couple cut the volcano/surf-scene wedding cake. It wasn't all too grown-up in the end, and the waffle-iron disappeared in a sea of presents.
On the way home I told you I wanted to get married someday.
"Yeah, I guess someday I might want that," you said.
I smiled when you weren't looking and left it at that.