I always wanted to be a June bride. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the song from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers… maybe it was an incredibly fun family wedding one June that struck me as simply perfect. Maybe it’s society’s fault. But regardless of the reason, when I started thinking about marrying my husband (before he was in on the plans, actually), I wanted a June wedding. I even knew the exact date I wanted—06/07/03 (I loved how it sounded: “oh six oh seven oh three”).
We got engaged in December of 2001. A summer ’02 wedding was out of the question, because another family member was planning his own nuptials for that time. I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting a year and a half. So, based on the extremely romantic premise of “venue availability,” it was settled: I would be an October bride.
The funny thing is, I don’t like June. I don’t like summer. And I love autumn with a passion that burns as hot and bright as a California wildfire.
I certainly didn’t settle into any kind of gloom over the whole thing. I planned my October wedding and got married outside on a beautiful Georgia evening, relying on a bride’s luck to skirt the rainstorms that had been soaking Atlanta for a week and a half.
It didn’t occur to us, at the time, that our wedding date—October 26—was anything other than a perfectly normal date. I mean, sure, we kind of knew that several of our guests were bravely foregoing game 7 (!!!) of the World Series to usher us into married life. And we knew Halloween would hit while we were on our honeymoon, so I packed my devil horns to wear to dinner on the cruise.
But only in the years since has it really sunk in:
For an entire lifetime of anniversaries, we are completely at the mercy of Halloween.
Once we have kids, we will no doubt celebrate our anniversary by carving pumpkins and making a mad dash to the store to buy costumes (unless my kids want to dress up as quilts, in which case I have them covered). Even until then, taking a weekend to go out of town or going out to dinner on a Friday or Saturday night means we miss the good parties—and I mean the really good parties. The kind that spawn inside jokes that have swirled around our ignorant heads for years now.
I should have suspected. After all, my birthday is constantly being batted around by another major holiday. But in all the rush to book a date, I didn’t think twice.
And it’s actually all right. Because someday, when we do have kids, we can drop them off at a friend’s Halloween party and sneak in a romantic dinner. And when we’re sitting around pulling the guts out of pumpkins, trying to keep children and dog from surreptitiously eating the seeds, we can smile and know that all of this was born from one non-rainy October evening.
They say when you marry in June, you’re a bride all your life. When you marry in October, you’re a bride for just the one day.
But you get to be a wife forever. And that works for me.
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