My Wedding Is This Weekend

Sharing a memory before I make a hundred more

Hey from the south of France! My wedding weekend starts tomorrow! Between the jet lag, the nerves, and the ends that still need tying, I am scatterbrained and overwhelmed. That’s why I’m glad I took the time to jot down some thoughts beforehand, however they turned out, which you’ll find below. If you enjoy my writing, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. —FLD

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Me the evening before my wedding, pumped

I remember lying in bed at night before the first day of camp. My outfit for the occasion—a Roxy t-shirt and cool pair of shorts—already laid out. Somewhere between a dream and a meditation, I let my mind run: I would make friends. A cute boy would notice and fall in love with me. It would be the best time of my life!

Outside my bedroom walls, the world was less peaceful. Al-Qaeda was gaining strength in the Middle East and AIDS was devastating Africa. The Y2K bug loomed as a global threat. But in the mind of a child, tucked beneath my covers and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers on my ceiling, everything felt perfect. That feeling of total self-contentment does not last long; I’d say it tapers off around the teenage years. But in the weeks leading up to my wedding, I’ve been feeling it again.

I haven’t nailed down my vows yet. Moritz’s are short and I want mine to be too. Not for lack of having words to say—clean in our pajamas, I’m usually going on about something before he gently turns to me and says, “Goodnight.” (Strong boundaries can be misunderstood as poor manners. This I now know.) The words I’m most comfortable sharing aren’t fit for romance’s greatest stage.

Love isn’t always romantic. It isn’t even usually romantic. Love can be, and when it is, I’m humbled by the gesture. Who, me? Most days, it is not a passionate confession or a witty and well-timed remark but an inconsequential question like, “How did you sleep?” At my wedding, I’ll play my role. I’ll surrender to the magic I helped construct and recite my tight two, but I’ve found that life’s best prose is often unpracticed.

Our officiant asked if there’s a specific moment I knew I loved Moritz. No, there isn’t. But there is one memory that surfaces quickly when I go digging. It’s late February in 2022. We’re back at my apartment after a night out celebrating a friend’s birthday. We are drunk enough to willfully summon a vulnerable moment, and I had recently developed a soft spot for a card game designed for the task: We’re Not Really Strangers.

It’s a bit gimmicky, and of the ‘my urban life is precious’ variety, but at 29 years old, I thought a lot about serendipity. The game consists of a stack of cards with questions and prompts printed on them to facilitate discussion beyond normal pleasantries. The goal is to get to know each player better. (It is less of a game and more of a conversation aid.) This was date four or five or six. We were steady and not so fragile.

I chose a card for Moritz to answer: It read: “What title would you give this chapter in your life?” Great one, I thought as a person in the business of choosing words. My current chapter felt grueling. I was new to the city, recently heartbroken, and I didn’t have laundry, or parking, in my building. Lucky for me, it was ending soon. But looking at Mo—my next chapter—I didn’t know it yet.

He was sitting on my couch in a black button-down, at a distance that suggested intimacy but acknowledged consent. A brothel-like red hue glowed behind him. (I had recently discovered colored light bulbs. Again—29.) I waited for his answer, expecting adequacy. English wasn’t his first language, and his creative muscle must have atrophied after years in finance. But I was wrong. His eyelids were heavy from booze, from fatigue. But his pupils were sharp and lucid. He gave the question some thought, smiling at me for a few moments before saying without an ounce of hesitation: “Build.”