Scenes from a Marriage: Object Lessons

Dave and I have been married 4 years today.

When we moved into this little house in Boulder, we packed our formal china, stemware, silver, platters, and other fine things off to storage; apart from cramming snacks onto regular plates for a neighborhood party last weekend, we haven't missed any of it. I find myself thinking about the antiquated tradition of the registry: these days, as people get married older, they tend to have all of the household basics (often his- and hers-sets, in fact), so the focus seems to be on higher-quality replacements (and we do love our all-clad pots and pans and our 400-thread count sheets) or the formal stuff; however, most couples I know either live away from family and/or live in small spaces where a second set of anything is not really practical. In the Mad Men era, couples actually used their china on a regular basis, or, at the very least, knew that their future held family events and other entertaining that called for both red and white wine glasses, not to mention champagne flutes and crystal water glasses. This is no longer the case: for many of us, we can't predict what kind of domestic future our lives hold; we are just as likely to stay on in tiny apartments or, quite the opposite, to travel the world or retreat to a rural setting and try our hand at artisenal cheese-making or organic farming. So why do we hold fast to the tradition of a formal registry?

Four years on, I have moments where I wonder why we did not ask our friends and families to contribute to college funds or pitch in on larger purchases, like a new couch. Oh, right: we didn't yet have children and our couch was not yet destroyed by their spills and spit up. Maybe, at the moment of anticipating our futures together, we aren't ready to be so practical, no matter what our views on marriage and commitment. Maybe we hope for some bygone era that represents a glamor we may attribute to our grandparents. Maybe we just don't know what we will truly need, or don't like the shape that conversation takes.

In this moment, as we are object-rich but cash-poor, I find myself thinking back on our wedding with this same questioning eye. Was it really necessary to scour the internet for the perfect 1940s porcelein cake topper? Was it so important to rent the more-expensive green-moire tablecloths just because the entry-level white ones felt a little stark in the space? Was it worth going over-budget on the favors in order to have the vintage-style bird ornaments with real tail feathers? In setting out to write this post, my answer to these, and similar questions, was: no. None of these things matter. A wedding is about the people, the vows, the committment two people make to each other and the people they choose to witness it.

But when I went back through photos from that day, I found myself changing my mind. A wedding IS, most importantly, about the vows. But it is also a celebration of two individuals, and the object choices we make represent us on the day that is, arguably, the most about us. I recently took one of those facebook personality quizzes that plots you on various continuums; on the one about form versus function, I was all "aesthete", literally 100%; I don't even know what the other choice was called. So it makes sense that these details mattered to me.






In looking at the pictures, I realize that many of my choices were also about that same sense of nostalgia that a formal registry might be: that cake topper literally comes from another era; the green moire tablecloths and the bird ornaments were chosen not just for aesthetic reasons, but because they reminded me of my grandmother, a woman who forever imprinted herself on my being not just by who she was and the glamor with which I associate her, but also for leaving the world when I was at the very impressionable age of 15, making her forever an unanswerable question. I was married in her pearl necklace, which now belongs to my aunt Molly: something old; something borrowed.


I realize, too, that some of my choices might have something to do with my parents' wedding: my mother was six month's pregnant with my brother Brian; the ceremony was very small, the party basically non-existent; the bride wore an orange maternity gown designed and sewn by a friend. Because I love the idea of the heirloom so much, and because there was no way I was wearing orange (it's my favorite color, but there are limits), I was married in a dress--something new--that both reflects an earlier era, as if my grandmother might have worn it, and eschewed the trends of the day, making it possible to translate, I hope, to a future era. I have two daughters, after all.


I will mention here that I spent as much time, if not more, thinking about the vows, the readings, the music, the dancing, and my future husband. But the funny thing about objects is that they do last; they become keepsakes. I kept all of the reply cards that people wrote notes on; if we ever have a Christmas tree again, it will bear these bird ornaments. But even better than that, those birds became a reason to play at the wedding: corsages, barettes, dance partners, and even better than having them on my own christmas tree is the idea that friends and family will have them on their own.

Dave's wedding tie is still my favorite, and every time he wears it I think of how nervous I was to look at him as I came down the aisle; how thrilled. I hope our dads and brothers wear theirs; like corsages, these cheerful polka-dot ties let people know that these men were important to us, members of our wedding party, but unlike corsages, they are gifts that last. Seeing any of them wear them again reminds me of my wedding day, and how glad I was to have them be an important part of it. I suppose this is the power of objects.


And the cake topper? It reminds me of one of our few truly private moments in the course of the night. Everyone had been seated for dinner and, before making our entrance into the ballroom, we stopped to cut the cake so it would be ready for dessert. The timing was awkward--I had wanted this to be a public moment--but in hindsight I can appreciate the privacy of the moment, the humor, the chance to catch our breaths, alone together, before re-entering the fray.


And I love, looking back, realizing something I didn't see at the time: that at our wedding, we ate dessert first.