Marching to the beat of a different mandolin

A friend asked for the story behind my jailhouse wedding, and since he has none of the backstory at all, I figured I'd write out the whole history of it.

Everything about my first wedding was perfect except for the marriage.  It was a big southern party, and Girlyman played the reception.  It was awesome.  But when I filed for divorce eighteen months later, it was just embarrassing.  I didn't think I ever wanted to get married again, but I certainly wasn't going to have another spectacle of a wedding.  

Fun fact:  my ex-husband met McKenzie a year before I did, at the 2005 Gatlinburg bridge tournament.  I hadn't gone that year, but Jeremy came back raving about this awesome guy he'd met named McKenzie, and the exact words "You are going to love this guy!" were spoken more than once.  

I met McKenzie at the 2006 Gatlinburg tournament -- when you're a young bridge player, it's only a matter of time until you meet all the other young bridge players.  I lived in Virginia and Z lived in Oregon, but both being bridge players under 30 was enough of a bond to start a friendship.  My divorce was just under way, and McKenzie and I did not become romantically involved until the following year, but it turns out my ex got at least that one thing right about me.

McKenzie is a handsome fella, and funny and sweet, too, but my initial attractions were based on his prowess with the cards.  (The nerd totally gets the girl.) 

He didn't want to get married, either.  He'd just never been drawn to the idea, and neither of us wanted kids, so it was kind of a match made in heaven, except that as soon as we admitted to ourselves that we were into each other, he really wanted to seal the deal.  And I knew right away that I wanted to spend my life with him, too, so I agreed that one day, yeah, I'd marry him, probably.  It was a casual engagement like that.  Another fun fact is that this went down before we ever kissed each other -- we fell in love through correspondence after seeing each other at that Gatlinburg tournament again, and he started telling people he was engaged before we'd ever even had a date.  

Anyway, as soon as it was logistically feasible, he packed all of his shit into his car and drove cross-country to move in with me in my place in Charlottesville.  I had an office job and owned my place, and he was a pro bridge player, so I was much more rooted to my location than he was, but now that I've fallen in love with Oregon myself, I realize what a huge sacrifice it was for him to move.  Oregon is the best.  But I digress.

I left my office job and became a full-time freelance writer so that I could travel with McKenzie to all his exotic bridge tournaments like Bermuda and Vegas and Raleigh...okay, not all were exotic.  But we talked more about getting married -- we were both adamant that there would be no ceremony, but with all the traveling we were doing, it felt only right that we should do it someplace awesome.  We were headed to Bermuda together in January of 2008, and basically agreed to do it there.  But we were lazy with the plans and it just didn't happen.  No biggie, the next month, we had a tournament in Vegas.  It would be easy to get married there, and we left for the tournament pretty sure that it would happen then.  We were going to be there on February 29, which seemed like an awesome day for an anniversary (especially for two people who don't really give a shit about anniversaries), so we decided to do it then.  Only, we got to Vegas, and McKenzie realized "fuck, I HATE Vegas."  He already knew that, actually, but maybe had hopes that being there with me would make it better.  No dice.  Everything about it made him sick, and he couldn't go through with having that as our wedding memory.  Having finally come around to the idea of having another wedding at all, I was pretty deflated by these two close calls.  When we were out at dinner on the 29th and a bridal party was at the same restaurant, I kind of had a breakdown.  I was pissed.  I told McKenzie that the next time he so much as hinted at marriage, he'd better fucking be ready to do it, because I was getting off this roller coaster.  He didn't mention it for another month.

Then at home on a quiet March 31st, he said to me, "You know, April Fools Day would be a good day to elope."

Within 10 minutes, we were at the county courthouse, filling out the paperwork.  
"Tomorrow?  April 1st?  Are you sure?" The clerk thought we must have forgotten to look at the calendar.  
"Yep!  Where do we go for the judge?"
"Oh, okay, but the judge doesn't do marriages here.  Only the sheriff.  You'll have to go to his office."
"Sure.  Where's that?"
"The jail."
Awesome.

So on Tuesday, April 1st, we put on some nice outfits and drove to the county jail.  There was a guy in shackles on a bench outside the sheriff's office, waiting to be taken to some hearing, but we had a 2pm appointment.  There's no law about having a witness present in Virginia, so we were able to pull off a true elopement, without bringing any of our friends in on it.  To be fair, though, that prisoner guy was kind of a witness.  The sheriff asked if we'd rather go outside in the nice little courtyard out front, but we declined.  When you get married in jail, you might as well get married in jail, you know?  So we did.

Outside the sheriff's office, there was a basket of complimentary gun locks.  It was part of the county's gun safety initiative.  We figured that would be a good wedding souvenir.  We don't have a gun, so it's been hanging from our rear view mirror ever since.

We started making phone calls right then.  My best friend was the first to find out.  After asking a couple of times if it was an April Fools joke, she realized we were telling the truth and congratulated us.  Parents were next, and they were all thrilled.  My oldest brother in Brooklyn thought it was a joke.  Then he thought I was being an immature idiot.  He may have been right, but things are pretty good now, anyway.  I like to claim that the shock of the announcement sent my sister-in-law into labor.  In reality, it was probably the whole being-nine-months-pregnant thing that did it, but shortly after we called New York, New York called back to say my niece was coming.  We took my parents out to a celebratory dinner at my other brother's restaurant that night, and surprised him with the news when we got there.  

The next morning, while Rachel at the hospital getting ready to give birth, Mom, Dad, my new husband, and I drove north, first to Philadelphia to pick up Lucy, and then onward to Brooklyn to meet baby Francesca, born at 3:18pm on April 2nd, which also happened to be Adrian's 37th birthday.  It was an eventful 24 hours.

It hasn't been the smoothest four years, so anniversaries are kind of a weird thing.  We separated in 2010 when a psychotic episode, also known as the first 27 years of my life, became too much for my husband to live with.  But it's true what they say about rock bottom and all that -- the separation was the jolt I needed to really get my shit together.  I got some therapy and some drugs and learned how to be a good person and a good wife, and we reconciled in early 2011.  Things have been wonderful since, and I'm happy to be celebrating four years of marriage today :)