Six months. That's how long it took my parents to find my future wife. Only another six months after that, there I was in front of two very large families sweating in my freshly-polished brown, cap-toe shoes waiting to wed to a woman I'd never even seen a photo of. Thank god this was the only time this suit would ever see the light of day: I was certain there were permanent stains in the armpits. It would need extensive dry cleaning, in all likelihood.
My parents had always been borderline insane when it came to religion and women, but I never thought they were actually serious about arranging my marriage, and certainly not in the old fashion where we didn't even meet each other first. Surely they weren't that old school, I had thought. Now, I only needed to look around at the stained glass windows and feel the thunderously loud organ hymns vibrating my teeth to be certain. They were completely serious.
Could I have hopped on a flight out of town and disappeared in another city? Absolutely... but undoing an entire childhood of HONOR YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER among all the other "thou shalt" and "thou shalt not" phrases drummed into your head was simply too much to actually follow through on the rebellious impulse - no matter how much I fretted over who was about to come down that aisle. I had to have faith.
I'd heard the final count of attendees just this morning, after a pair of late-breaking cancellations. Eighty-four on my side of the family, one-hundred and three on Elena's. That was her name. Elena. That's literally all I knew. Her last name didn't seem to matter, since she would have mine instead, soon enough. I knew that, and that "She's a good girl. Comes from a good family. Love will grow in time with your common faith in god."
The party line didn't do a lot of good to calm my nerves. Nor did the one-hundred and three pairs of unfamiliar eyes probably wondering who the idiot boy was, standing at the front in a suit that makes him look more handsome than he does in real life. I might have been twenty-three, but I felt twelve. I found myself looking through the crowds, trying to imagine what my wife might look like based on their appearances, but they're mostly too far (and too seated) to really tell. They seem to have a rather colorful and classy sense of formal fashion. That's good, I guess?
Meanwhile, my extended family and church friends are on the other side, in a much darker palette of cloth, all singing their hearts out. They know all the hymns by heart. For them, this is probably the happiest day of their lives. Meanwhile, I'm doing my best not to just look petrified with no one else up here but the priest in his ornate, white vestments with golden inlay.
He seemed to ignore me as he led the assembly in the song, then went on to speak about love of God and family. It was almost mesmerizing, watching him speak, because of the way his thick white beard seemed to quiver when he got particularly zealous. Of course I knew Father Neema and his long-faded Indian accent for as long as I'd been alive. He'd been our pastor seemingly forever, but it was different seeing him like this. After one of the prayers, he finally gave me a reassuring nod and smile. It was going to all be okay. He'd have met my soon-wife before the service. He must know we'd be okay together, at the very least.
I'd been guessing for the last six months who my future wife would be or what she'd be like, at the very least. But all morning the hypothesizing had gone into overdrive. Of course, there were the worst-case scenarios: my parents could have chosen some really unfortunate woman I had less than zero attraction to, or some high maintenance, blonde princess that looked nice on the outside but was a mean taskmaster. I'd flipped through a hundred thoughts of all the ways things could go horribly wrong, but I trusted my parents (and God) enough not to do that to me. There were much more likely scenarios.
Somewhere along the way, I'd resolved that one of two women was about to walk down that aisle. The first possibility was that my parents set me up with someone who would clean and cook and pray and raise children all day. Sweet, plain (but nice enough looking), and dull. But predictable. I thought they knew me better than that, but I also thought they'd let me choose my own wife. The second possibility was that they'd set me up with some smart but weird and nerdy girl who's disturbingly into dogs (dogs are fine, by the way, but some women have no chill with their furbabies) and only vaguely attractive when she's not wearing oversized sweats. I wasn't sure which option I preferred.
Not like I had much of a choice in the matter. There was nothing to do but wait. But not for much longer, now.
The final hymn cadences to a close, and in the stuffy silence, I know the bridal processional is next. I know because I committed the order of proceedings to memory. The priest's old voice lifts with his hands, "All rise!" Finally!
The organ begins a new and ornate prelude, and the assembled crowd clamors to the feet with the coordination of fifth-graders. But that's not what I'm thinking about. I'm not thinking about anything. My eyes are glued to the far end of the aisle.
At last, I saw her.
I briefly wonder why her dress isn't white, then realize it is: the stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of color across the fitted and layered lace gown. Naturally, every last bit of skin is covered. That includes a pair of white gloves and a white veil I wonder how she can see out of. There is some good news. The dress fits well to her slim waist, or at least it's tailored to flatter her shape. I can't really tell if she's short or tall even, the long dress and my elevation masking that. She's probably wearing heels under all that fabric anyway.
Much more than that, I can't really tell. She holds a bouquet of roses and orchids to her chest, so the only other thing I can see clearly is the shape of her arms, with the long sleeves actually fitted and somewhat snug. They're arms, I guess? I put it together: she must be relatively thin, or she'd have bigger arms. She starts walking up the handful of steps to join me by the priest.
She, and the music, come to a stop, and I suddenly realize I have butterflies in my stomach. All this time, I'd been dreading marrying some overweight dumptruck horror of a woman, but now it's something completely different. Now she's on the same level as me, I can work out a bit more. She's definitely tall and lithe, but the thing that strikes me most of all is how absolutely wonderful she smells.
It's a gentle, almost spicy smell. Not Christmas spice, something more savory than that. Now that she's closer, I can make out the vague outline of her face, and even better I can see a couple locks of near-black hair. I suddenly realize her hands are held out in front of her. I'd almost forgotten the cue! I take her hands, feeling the warmth of her fingers radiating through the satin gloves. There's a gentleness there that makes my heart beat faster, and a calm that puts me to shame.
I notice her dress is something really special, now I can see it up close. The fit blended a fitted, lacey torso and arms with a simple and elegant A-line skirt. It oozed modest tradition with a fashionable, modern twist. Literally - the lace patterns wrapped around her chest and shoulders in a clever asymmetry, creating an illusion of a neckline, and that the dress was more racy than it really was. It was an interesting detail. One that told me that the woman I was about to marry really knew how to dress, and that she liked to push boundaries. It's all a massive surprise.
The sermon keeps going, but I'm not really listening. I just listen to my heart thud, feeling the warmth of her hands in mine. I was deeply aware I had absolutely no experience with women. Dating was completely forbidden, lest I be tempted away from my future wife. I knew lots from the biology books and from the church's surprisingly extensive sexual education classes plus the occasional sanitized internet search, but that was it. No practical experience (not even a kiss), no raunchy locker-room talk, and certainly no porn. The one time I got caught staring at a women's fashion magazine as a teen, dad put the fear of god in me.
It wasn't like women were property, though - quite the opposite. Respect for women was a big thing in my household and church. There were a fair number of strong and independent women in my congregation, taking positions of church leadership just as often as the men. My mom and two sisters were strong and sharp, a force of nature each in their own right. My youngest sister and I were like best friends, and many of her friends I considered to be my friends too. I knew how to treat women with respect and humanity, regardless of what society might want us to do. But this was different. Never before had any thoughts even remotely approached the topic of sex with someone who was standing right in front of me.
I was mortified at the thought that's something this stranger and I were supposed to do together. Surely the thought had occurred to everyone watching us get married right now. Oh, it was exciting to be sure, but holy shit was it scary! Would she even want to be with me physically? She had to be just as terrified as me! Well, I suppose she knows what I look like now - maybe fifteen minutes before I know what she looks like. It's hell wondering if she's standing there, repulsed. So much so, I completely miss the shadow of a tiny smile behind her veil as I stare numbly at our hands. I very nearly miss saying my vows too.
The priest coughed. Right!
I swallowed, hard. "In the name of God..." My voice trembled. I take a breath. That's better. "In the name of God, I, James, take you, Elena, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death."
She removes a glove as I take the ring and place it on her finger.
"And you, Elena?" The priest continues.
"In the name of God, I, Elena, take you, James, to be my husband," She sounds so much more confident than I did. I realize now it's the first time I've heard her speak. It's a pleasantly smooth alto with a lyric lilt to it. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death."
I held my hand out, watching the gold band go onto my finger. It felt awkward. Cold. It dawned on me just now. I'm married!
"You may kiss the bride."
My heart nearly burst from all the adrenaline pumping through me. This was it. Oh god, please don't let her hate me or think I'm ugly. Please don't let her be ugly!
I cautiously lifted the veil, and leaned in trying not to look or to think about it too much just in case she was riddled with warts or something. A warm little wet spot pressed against my lips, soft and gentle - like her hands. There was applause, but I almost didn't hear it. This was my first kiss! And it was shockingly nice, too! I want it to go on longer, but prudence demands otherwise. There's family and God to attend to, so her lips leave mine.
I pull back, and see her. She's looking back at me with a funny little smile as she properly pulls her veil back. I blink, almost not trusting my eyes. She's not ugly, thank god! Wait. She's not ugly at all...
She's actually gorgeous. A stunning, intimidating beauty.
I was right about her black hair - it's long, thick, silky, and everywhere. It has a little bit of a curl to it that's been forced to relax into more of a wave. That probably took a while. Her skin is a sort of dusky, light golden-brown. Her eyes are brown too, but dark pools that seem to look into my soul. Her eyebrows are perfect black slashes and her lips a little thin too, red with lipstick. Her cheeks carried a hint of color, and her jawline had a bit of strength and sharpness to it. I thought she looked like an actress. It was almost even more terrifying to finally see her than to not see - she hadn't been anything I'd expected.
I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped open. My thoughts turn on the point of a drawing compass. Had she expected me? Would she want me? To save myself embarrassment, I look away as quickly as possible. A mistake, as I'd learn later.
