If you have not yet read the previous post below, please do so before you peruse the following.
I would like to thank everyone so much for the very touching comments of support. This was an exciting weekend for Rob and me and Goblin. Something that we would have never thought could happen just a few months ago came off without a hitch. (Or with a hitch, come to think of it.)
On Friday, along with my brother Mike and friends Faustus and Richard, we drove to a Catskills resort called the Emerson Lodge, where we had reserved a suite of rooms that appeared to have been decorated by chipmunks with a fetish for bears. It was actually quite comfortable, although the air in the room smelled like sweat socks and the water smelled like smoky bleach . . . but who could notice such things on the eve of his marriage?
Early Saturday, we piled into our cars and drove to the New Paltz bed and breakfast where the wedding was to be held. Rob and I shared our special day with fourteen other same-sex couples, many of whom had children or had been together for many years and already considered themselves married. It was incredibly moving to witness these families being made official, and there was boisterous support from the crowd. The ceremonies were each just a few minutes long, but the day was so hot and humid that Rob’s and my relationship was almost joined by our melting into a common puddle, rather than through any legal solemnization.
When our turn finally came (we were ninth), we walked down the aisle accompanied by flute music and a wildly panting Boston terrier. Our ceremony, presided over by a Unitarian Universalist minister who was arrested earlier this year for performing same-sex ceremonies (the charges were dismissed by the judge), was quiet and intensely personal. I don’t remember a word of it, I was so happy and so nervous; it’s a good thing we were provided with a transcript beforehand. I remember staring at Rob and having Goblin look on proudly as her daddies were married. I remember smiling like a goon. I remember enthusiastic applause as we walked back to our seats. I remember cranking up the air conditioning to full blast when we got back to the car.
That night, once we were alone, Rob and I drove to Woodstock and wandered the streets in that beautiful village of free spirits. Following in the footsteps of newlyweds everywhere, we attended the Gypsy Psyhic Fair, where I had my cards read by a man carrying a Macintosh Powerbook, and Rob learned his fortune from a man wearing fairy wings. Later, during dinner, a series of explosions brought us out to the sidewalk, where a full-fledged fireworks show was underway in the sky above.
Many of the other diners and staff of the restaurant joined us outside. “I’m thirty years old,” I heard a waitress tell someone. “I’m a painter. I’m just going to go for it.”
Go for it.
Rob and I put our arms around each other. The twinkling fire from above reflected in our new wedding bands.
Anything seemed possible.