The sky smiled on the day you became my wife. Late January in D.C. and it was 72 all weekend. "Is it always like this?" friends and relatives from New York asked. "Only when we get married," I told them.

I wanted to get a haircut before the 2:00 p.m. ceremony, but when I walked into the barber's at 11:00 they were booked. "What's the soonest you can get me in?" I asked.

"I got an opening at 2 o'clock," answered the barber.

"Great. Put me down," I said.

I still love the idea that right around the time my eyes began to water as you said your vows, there was a barber somewhere in D.C. looking at the clock and wondering where I was. Right around the time I was getting choked up over my own vows, he was cursing me under his breath.

Neither of us drank at the reception, but we danced so much I bruised my left heel. I walked with a slight limp all week, the hitch in my step a constant reminder of the joy we played out in motion--or maybe how I almost fell after the I do's, missing the stepp from the altar to the aisle. With each step that week, I saw you kicked back on the couch in our suite, shoes off, feet on the coffee table.

The audience applauded politely when I twirled you to the opening verse of Ben Fold's "The Luckiest"--half of our wedding medley. (Imagine that, a love so big it needed a medley.) I almost laughed, smirked a bit at you, thinking these people have no idea what they're in for. They roared when we went into our manically choreographed routine to the the Theme from Growing Pains, which boomed over the DJ's speakers just after Ben's last tender piano chords. We ended leaning forward together, facing the crowd, jazz hands flickering. They gave us a standing ovation. I kissed my fists and raised my arms above my head victorious, staggering around like a punch-drunk prize fighter.

As long as we got each other
We got the world spinnin' right in our hands
Baby you and me...We got to be...
The luckiest dreamers who never quit dreamin'

It's true.

Looking back we both regret we didn't eat more. 7 varieties on the cheese display, and neither of us touched a one. Garlic mashed potatoes in martini glasses we never got around to eating. I remember you tried to eat some of the pasta, but one of your cousins spilled the plate on your dress.

You pouted, laughed. Someone pushed you out on the dance floor because I was making a fool of myself to Daft Punk. I never realized how long "Around the World" was. I kept waving for people to come out to join in, but they stood back, watching the spectacle of us.

Of course, other times, they crowded the dance floor. They tipped so well they kept the bar open for another hour. Even the DJ stayed an extra hour. No one wanted to leave. They kept dragging us back. You dancing, by the end, without your shoes, exhausted.

But I forgive them, for keeping us so long. They just wanted it to go on and on. The night, the joy, the fun.

For them it had to end.

For me it never has.
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