Happy anniversary to us! Two years ago on a beautiful April Fool’s Day in a small town in Alabama, I married Nikki, the woman of my dreams. Thus, we signed our names to each other’s history and future — a decision of love I could never regret.
I’ve never heard a soul who is now married say that their wedding went off without hysteria. I suppose I am no exception. Seven-hundred and thirty days removed from the event, I think I am now ready to tell this story.
There are three generally accepted cosmological theories about how the universe will end. The Big Chill is the most commonly accepted, where over the course of deep time all of the energy in the universe will dissipate, leaving creation a void, lifeless, expanding darkness. The Big Crunch expects all matter will eventually coalesce into a point similar to the ingredients needed for a Big Bang. And then, there’s the Big Rip — not a theory. It happened on my wedding day.
If all of this sounds like a convoluted way of saying my pants ripped… it’s because all of this is a convoluted way of saying my pants ripped. It wasn’t so much a rip as a wardrobe malfunction, but I suppose I’ll clarify that later on.
Imagine a beautiful outdoor venue, the temperature about 75 F° (23.8 C°), and not a cloud in the sky. My six groomsmen and myself had arrived about six hours before the event was scheduled to begin, and we were stationed in a beautiful mansion’s loft to enjoy the day and attend all the needed photography and events of the day. It was as close to perfection as our hard work would allow.
After working my way through a series of photography challenges rivaling that of a movie star, we were about 75 minutes from game time. My vows had been composed, cemented with a lovely blend of humor and tear-rendering nostalgia. The wedding director had briefed us on the route as a field commander would a marching band. We even had solid contingency plans in case each of the many moving parts of the ceremony failed with spectacle. Well, the audio equipment didn’t break down, it didn’t rain, and there weren’t any unforeseen hecklers.
Instead, my pants
ripped came undone. It was the wildest thing you would have ever seen. I didn’t cut them on any thorns or sharp corners. Along the seam, a hole simply formed from the inside as if a thread was missing. Small at first, it grew like the distance between subatomic particles until a devastating Big Rip from my waist down towards my knee had formed. My grandfather, a pastor who also happened to be the wedding’s officiant, had to come to the rescue. It took up to 20 safety pins, arranged like stitches on the inside of the pant leg, to make the pair of pants usable again. Somehow, we managed to avoid Nikki discovering this incident while in progress.
Just imagine me sitting there in front of six groomsmen, my grandfather, and my dad, in my purple boxers, while they desperately attempt to repair my pants that tore for no reason.
“If I have to go out there in my boxers, the rest of you do too,” I recall telling them. That would have made for an interesting wedding. Sidenote, having 20 metal wires poking your leg kind of hurts.
Still, I wasn’t too fretful. I got to marry the smartest and most incredible woman in the world on that beautiful night. I supposed twenty safety pins saved our wedding, thus repairing my Big Rip and saving my own personal universe from tearing apart that night.
Tell us your embarrassing wedding story in the comments, or tell us that nothing embarrassing happened to you. I don’t think it’s possible for there to be a flawless wedding. Prove me wrong.
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