Vows Revisited
At the altar, while reciting my vows, which I’d written weeks before and rehearsed right up until tux time — two pages of gushy prose expressing my general exuberance and obvious dumb luck — not quite halfway through, my throat muscles constricted, my voice broke, shifting several octaves in a heartbeat. I tried grinding through, but what came out was a piercingly shrill falsetto that one might expect from a prepubescent choirboy. My legs started to quiver and my knees felt ready to buckle. I thought I was going down faster than you can say “Take this ring.”
My bride (whom I’ll refer to by the letter D.) detected my malfunction in a heartbeat. Under the pretense of adjusting her veil, she poked her elbow deep into my ribcage. The jab made me straighten and gasp for breath.
Turns out a few gulps of air was just what I needed.
Two or three breaths later, still shaky but far less woozy, I cleared my throat, ready to continue my rambling declarations. Except my mind had reset. Though I could have recited my vows from the beginning, mentally I’d lost my place. No one stirred, no one murmured. The silence hummed. The old priest wavered his eyebrows. My bride shuffled her feet.
In retrospect, all I needed to do was reach into my pocket, bring out the handwritten pages, find my spot and continue. Instead I stood there, rocking on my heels, heart thumping, gazing wild-eyed at my bewildered bride. Three thoughts kept repeating themselves: you are seriously fucking this up; she deserves better than this; your new father-in-law is going to strangle you like a Christmas goose.
The old priest leaned forward and whispered, “Everything okay?” And I took this inquiry to be directed not just at me, but also as an appeal to my betrothed to yank the leash on this witless heathen.
D. raised her bouquet rather ominously. Fearing another poke in the ribs, I coughed to signal my readiness. Then, in a rough and husky voice, I blurted out a few words, skipping past most of what I’d written, summing up with a simple oath: I’d love D all the days of my life.
No one applauded, though no one laughed or snorted either. Only the priest had reviewed my notes beforehand, so no one else in attendance was the wiser. The thing is, I left out a large portion of what I had intended to say that morning, much of it pathetically sentimental, a mishmash of clichés culminating with enough pledges and assurances to last a lifetime.
Considering how things ended up — our marriage imploded after eighteen months — that’s probably for the best. This was in the mid-70s and Camcorders were all the rage. At least a dozen people were videotaping, making a permanent record of the event.
I’d really hate for D. — or anyone, for that matter — to hear the actual vows I’d written and realize just how head-over-heels in love I was back then.
Bob Thurber is the author of 6 books, including “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel". Over the years his work has received a long list of awards and honors, appeared in Esquire and other notable publications, and been included in over 60 anthologies. Selections have been utilized as teaching tools in schools and universities throughout the world. Bob resides in Massachusetts. He is legally blind. For more info, visit: BobThurber.net
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