Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (28 page)

As I fell asleep the night before our city hall date, I found myself unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion and no one to talk to about it outside of our bed. I distracted myself by fixating on the one thing that was within my control: What would I wear? I asked Jonathan how he planned on dressing, and he admitted that he hadn’t thought about
it. I was a little surprised but I kept it to myself and pushed forward. We decided that he should wear his old suit—not his worst suit, just his only suit. I dug through my closet, but nothing appealed to me, so I gave myself permission to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime (hopefully) opportunity and hit a couple of dress stores in the morning.

I walked into one of my favorite stores that I owned nothing from: Anthropologie. I loved the clothes there but considered them beyond my price point. I’d wander in occasionally, manhandle some pretty patterned fabric, take a look at the price tag, and scream, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

For a heartbeat I’d turn into my wartime-raised mother: “You’d think for that much money they could at least hem the dress! It only has two seams. What is it—a hundred dollars a seam?” Some clothing stores make you think,
You know what? I’m going to learn how to sew!

But today was different. I didn’t care how much the dress cost or how carelessly it was made. I was buying it.

Before long, I was twirling in front of a mirror in a flowery, cream-colored, A-line dress that fit me
almost
perfectly. It was delicate and pretty and horrifically overpriced, just like most wedding dresses.

I took it up to the cashier, who, like a good shop girl, smoothed it between tissue paper and commended my choice. “Oh my god! I love this dress. It’s one of my favorite things in the whole store right now.”

She baited me. I couldn’t help myself. I had to tell her why I was buying it, just to see her reaction.

I leaned in toward her. “Really? Because I’m getting married in it in a couple of hours.”

The blood drained from her face. She couldn’t find her next
words. This was pages beyond what it said in the customer satisfaction training handbook. But I could see she felt scandalized, as if my being so cavalier about the most important day of my life tarnished her own bridal dreams. By purchasing that dress, I was letting down all young, beautiful women the world over. If everyone acted like me, there would be no weddings. There would be no tulle veils or tiny tiaras. After years of imagining, planning, and leafing through bridal magazines, she was suddenly faced with a marriage anarchist.

I could see her mind working, trying to make sense of this bridal princess of darkness who was despoiling her Vera Wang wedding dreams.

Finally, with a tight smile she said, “Well, it’s not your first marriage, right?”

Wow.

“Yes, it’s my first,” I said self-righteously, savoring every minute of her discomfort while pocketing my credit card.

As I left the store, she yelped, “Well . . . you got a great deal on a wedding dress!” Positive yet disapproving. It was almost like having an actual bridesmaid.

THE PLAN WAS
that Jonathan would leave work at lunchtime, and we would meet on the subway platform for the Downtown N at 23rd Street at 1:15
PM
. At the very last minute, I ran into the DSW and bought a pair of gold Steve Madden wedges, changed into my outfit in the DSW staff bathroom (thanks to a broken lock), and hit that grimy platform at 1:10
PM
, ready to get hitched with five minutes to spare. I
was smiling. This was fun! It felt like I was the lead in an action movie, with a secondary romantic storyline.
Run, Ophira, Run
.

And I knew that I didn’t doubt my choices at all. I was staying in New York and I was staying with Jonathan. Wow. There really was a first time for everything.

Trains whizzed by; the usual variety of hurried New Yorkers and spastic tourists got off and on. I watched and I waited. It was 1:15. Then it was 1:20. We all know it’s impossible to time things perfectly when you’re dealing with the New York subway, but then it was 1:30. My jaw clenched, and my eyebrows furrowed. What the hell was the holdup? At 1:35, I was still standing there alone, shifting my balance from one foot to the next because my toes were squished into the new gold Steve Madden sandals, adding injury to insult. As subway after subway shot by, I felt more and more stupid in my frivolous flowered sundress.

At 1:40, I yelled at God. “Really? This is how the story of my life goes? I finally give in and decide to get married, and the world conspires against me? You’re just going to go ahead and let me get stood up on my wedding day on a dirty cement subway platform? That’s what I deserve? I can’t even be dumped above ground?”

As I was about to give in and trudge up the stairs to confirm that there wasn’t a zombie apocalypse, I saw Jonathan race down, running like he was escaping from a burning house, sweating profusely, with a face full of remorse.

“Where the hell were you?” I yelled. Those were my first words to him on our wedding day.

“I don’t know. Somehow I wasn’t looking and I got on the express
train by accident . . . and I figured it out too late. I saw you on the platform as we went by, and I was waving my arms, but I guess you couldn’t see me.”

No, I didn’t see anyone beckoning from the hundred-mile-an-hour subway car shouting, “Ophira! I’m here! No, no, no, no, no!”

It was an uncharacteristic mistake for a native New Yorker to make. Maybe he was suffering from subconscious cold feet that the extra ten minutes on the express train somehow subdued? We got on the next train in silence. I was still angry, slow to recover from what could have been the biggest emotional disaster of my life. When Jonathan put his sweaty arm around me, I brushed it off.

“I need a minute,” I barked. Say what you will, but I knew I looked sexy fuming in that dress. Worth every penny.

Getting married at city hall was about as romantic as getting married at the DMV. Even though the little wooden sign read C
HAPEL
, it felt like a generic government office, void of atmosphere and ambience. We stood in a long line with drunk college kids in front of us, and dubious green-card relationships behind us. Nothing in the Big Apple comes without a long line.

With fifteen minutes before closing time, we made it into the chapel, a bland room with a chipped brown desk, and stood between the American flag and the New York state flag. Our justice of the peace glanced over the top of her
New York Post
. Jonathan, with a quiver in his voice, told her that we didn’t have our wedding rings yet, so she could skip that part. She nodded and without warning commenced her thirty-second state-approved civil nuptial speech. It was fast paced, with no variation or cadence to illustrate significance. She barely left enough space for us to
throw in our “I dos.” If we replayed the recording for quality assurance, I think we’d find out that Jonathan and I exchanged “I d-ahs.”

Then we heard her say, “Please take her left hand and place the ring on it.”

We both looked at her, unimpressed. Seriously? Could she not go off script for even one minute? Improvise for just a quick moment to make it seem vaguely personal? Sure, it was almost the end of her shift, but it was our FUCKING WEDDING DAY!

For someone so adamant about a simple ceremony, I was now pissed that people weren’t making more of an occasion of things. If either of us had been more present, we probably would have interrupted her, but the whole experience was too overwhelming. Dazed, Jonathan took hold of my left hand, and when she recited, “Place the ring on the groom’s hand,” I grabbed his, like we were about to sashay out of there. While she finished up, flatly listing the different levels of government that now recognized us as legally joined, we stifled giggles, holding hands, braving it together. We waited for her to say something more to us—a congratulations, maybe? Instead, she looked at us and bellowed, “Next!”

With city hall behind us and joint tax returns ahead of us, we took a cab back to the Lower East Side to have a couple of glasses of prosecco at a little Italian place in our neighborhood. As we ordered a second round, a little dizzy from the magic bubbles, we blurted to our waiter, “We just got married, like an hour ago!”

With very little interest, he said, “Congratulations,” and slapped down our check for the full amount.

Either he didn’t understand us, didn’t give a shit, or had seen it
all before:
They come in all dressed up, and one glass of bubbly later claim they just got married to get free drinks
. Or maybe like the shop girl at Anthropologie, he couldn’t fathom why anyone would choose to trade the intimacy and grandeur of their big day for a summer dress and a faux Italian café. It was hard to believe that even in such a diverse, nontraditional society like New York, people just couldn’t wrap their heads around what we had done.

Or did this waiter look at me and think,
You don’t look like the kind of girl who’d get married
.

There was something about the lack of formality, the skepticism from any layperson, and the undecorated rooms that worked in our favor. We compensated by caring more. In our little apartment we’d refer to each other as hubby or wife, and laugh: It was our little joke. There was no one to ask us when we were having babies, if we were going to move out to the suburbs, or how married life was going. It was just for us. And we kept it a secret for an entire year. If anything, we’d be arm and arm at a restaurant, and our friends would ask, “When are you two going to tie the knot already?” We’d look at each other and smile. “Probably next spring.”

That year was the most romantic year of my life. A dear friend and fellow comic, Jo Caulfield, once said to me that the best thing about marriage is “you become closer in ways you can’t imagine, and you have more independence in ways you can’t imagine.” When she first said this to me, I couldn’t even conceptualize what she was talking about. But then I got it. With all the outside pressures removed, we blended our lives at our own pace.

A year later, on the exact same date, we called our parents and friends and told them that we had eloped at city hall. We were ready to face it all by then, their comments and criticisms. Our bond was tight, tested, and we’d passed. We’d gone from renewing leases with each other to buying, and it felt good.

The ongoing joke has become that when anyone asks us how long we’ve been married, our response is, “Five or six years, depending on whom you ask.” They don’t usually get it, but the truth is that after a few years no one but you remembers exactly how long it’s been. Everyone has their own lives to think about, and it’s that kind of necessary self-absorption we were counting on.

We ended up throwing not one but two small gatherings for our friends and family, one in Calgary, the other in New York, and sent out printed invitations with origami cranes affixed to them (I hand-folded about twenty-five of them). For a couple that didn’t have a real wedding, we ended up having three marriage-related celebrations. Trading up from Anthropologie, I wore a long raw-silk dress made by my fashion designer friend, and Jonathan got himself two bespoke suits.

Only one friend commented that she thought I’d never tie the knot. But all my hard work had to amount to something. I had screwed my way through five cities and compiled an eclectic list of partners, the total number of which sounded impressive even to me. But you know what? It had paid off. I’d done it. I’d made an honest commitment. Don’t get me wrong, I was still a weed, but a weed in choice conditions is a happy weed. I was content in my “first” marriage.

All I can say is, this one is sticking.

I
was walking down Bleecker Street when my cell phone rang. I recognized the familiar Calgary area code, but not the number. I picked up, and it was my high school friend Cheryl. She’d recently moved back to Calgary and had received the invitation to our party, but by coincidence was planning on getting married on the same night. I joked that for once we’d finally both go through with something significant on the same night. She didn’t quite follow. I brought up that weekend in Banff . . . the night I lost my virginity . . . the night she didn’t . . . the air force pilots? The capers of Jasmin van Brunswick and Cheryl-Lynn . . . the night that shaped my life in many ways . . . remember? She said, “Oh yeah, I kind of recall that motel room. It had a weird smell.”

It made me laugh. She didn’t really remember. And to be fair, it wasn’t as significant a trip for her as it was for me. I wasn’t insulted or
hurt in any way. It just goes to show that we are the stars of our own stories. Other people are supporting cast and recurring extras. Just ask the guy who “expanded my horizons,” whatever his name was. Probably Dave.

I
want to thank my agent, Alia Hanna Habib, who saw me host a MothSlam and suspected there might be a book in me. This plainly wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for your support and direction; thank you for going above and beyond your call as an agent, time and time again.