Over lunch at Pat O’Brien’s, Brent and I wished each other a “happy 4-day anniversary.”
I can’t believe it’s been that long already. It seems like just a few moments ago I was carrying my maiden name and wearing only one ring on my left hand’s fourth finger. I couldn’t wait to see our nuptials arrive, and already they are in our past.
There’s something surreal and depressing about the day I’ve waited my whole life for having blown right past me.
At the same time, our days have passed so deliberately and magically that I feel as though I’ve been blasted years into the future. I don’t remember the details of our wedding weekend — they have slowly drifted into the history of Mr. and Mrs. Brent Bays.
I’d give anything to take those 50 or so slow steps down the aqua aisle in Ponder.
As much as our parents caution us to not be in a hurry to grow up, we usually play tug-of-war with our futures, aching for the highlights to hurry down history’s halls. I’m 33 — not too young anymore — and this is my first (and I pray only) marriage. I have no children yet, don’t own a home of my own and still have plenty of hallmarks to hit.
Yet I wish I could redo my wedding day a few more times, just to savor the anticipation of the pastor’s pronouncement a little longer.