And My Heart Begins to Sing

Reader, I married him.

After ten years, I guess it seemed like time.  We were married by a very nice woman called Tiffany who has recognized a wide-open market in the greater capital area and pretty much marries people like us non-stop.  She has a handsome room downtown, simple and white with high windows, and there we met on Tuesday afternoon, just a handful of us.  My sister came, and her son (who I helped raise all those years ago and who now has a baby of his own - now that we live nearby, we are very much looking forward to being Uncle Mames).  Miss Rheba was there, and a couple of friends who could take part of a summer afternoon off.  We stood up and Tiffany read a very simple ceremony, then signed our marriage certificate, and there it was. Signed, sealed, delivered, he's mine.  And vice versa.  Not all that much of a change, really, but as Wordsworth once wrote (albeit in a very different context) - O! the difference to me.

We all went back to the empty apartment afterward, to share the joy with the dogs (who responded with suitable exuberance) and have a little nibble and some Champers (now that I think about it, part of the exuberance may have been from the dog's favorite thing, the Presence of Cheese).  Then on to dinner at a place nearby.  Nothing fancy, no place cards, no processionals and recessionals, but a milestone nonetheless.

You know us WASPs - no sentiment, please.  Thank goodness for people like Cyndi Lauper who can tell it like it is.