Goin' to the chapel (No, not together)

By Amanda Hunt and Monty Phan
Arizona Daily Wildcat
March 22, 1996

After nearly five years of dating, my boyfriend and I decided it was time to either break up or get married.

We chose the latter.

It's the time every girl dreams of ... a diamond ring, a beautiful dress, a perfect day.

We said, "Let's make it a long engagement, about a year and a half. That way we have lots of time to plan."

When we told everyone last summer we were getting married this December. They all said, "Wow, that's a lot of time."

Suddenly everyone's saying, "Wow, that's soon. So, have you chosen a caterer?"

The perfect day is getting closer, the beautiful dress needs fitting, and who cares about the ring.

Make it stop. I can't go to school, work, have a life and plan a wedding at the same time.

So much for having a life, I'm engaged.

All it should be, really, is two people in love wanting to share the rest of their lives together, who would like a small ceremony to celebrate the occasion.

Actually, it's two people able to tolerate each other enough to stand living together for the rest of their lives, who must undergo a huge, expensive ceremony to make it all legal.

It's not that grim. Being just months away from "the big day," it feels that way.

After coming up with a million ways to politely tell your mother you're not going to go with the pink chiffon bridesmaid dresses she had in mind and another million ways to politely tell your soon-to-be mother in-law she can't possibly invite the entire W est Coast to the wedding, you have to plan, pick, and ponder every other tiny detail.

I started with the basics. I read up on the subject.

Trying to be as frugal as possible, I hit Bookman's single shelf of used wedding books, and cleaned them out. I disregarded the bad omen that the store probably bought the books from someone whose engagement was disastrous.

Chapter One: Telling your parents

OK, I can skip that one. They already know.

Chapter Two: Throwing an engagement party

What? I'm getting ready to plan the most major event in my life and you want me to start by planning a party? Skip that.

Chapter Three: What kind of wedding is right for you

This is where it gets complicated. According to the "rules," you should always wear a white dress, unless it's your second marriage. In which case, you should wear a light-colored suit. If you are having a formal wedding during the day the groom should we ar a cutaway coat, striped trousers, gray waist coat, a wing collar with ascot, and black kid shoes. The bride should wear a long white dress, with a train and a veil. Or if the couple opts for a semiformal daytime ceremony the groom should wear a black s ack coat and a white shirt with four-in-hand tie and the bride should drop the train and shorten the veil.

Forget it. Who knows what all those things are anyway?

I'll just wear my mother's cream-colored, floor-length dress with a short train and he can wear a suit. See if they catch me.

Chapter Four: Hiring a wedding consultant

I don't need that, I can handle it myself. Next.

Chapter Five: Finding the Perfect Place

Well, let's see, the family would love for us to get a married in a church, but which one do we pick?

That causes too many problems, we decide. "Lets get married in a neutral place."

Like a nice garden preserve. No, wait, it could rain.

How about a resort. No, let's be unique.

We'll decide that later.

Chapter Six: Registering

Yes. This is part every couple awaits - the gifts. A chance to pick out all your china, serving pieces, dishes, goblets, flatware, linens, small appliances and any other item you think you can milk out of your close friends and family members.

According to the rules, the items should be "everything a woman needs to begin her wifedom." Perfect, except I hate to cook.

My fiance and I surveyed these rules, and decided to take a more modern approach. Since he cooks, he can pick out all the cooking stuff and we'll choose china and flatware patterns together.

Sounds easy enough.

"How about this French Country Garden one," I suggest.

"I really like this Metropolitan Black," he says.

I think I'll pitch the books and call my mother.

"So, mom, I think your idea for the bridesmaids is great. Could you also do a few other things?"

"Let's see, we need to order those invitations, find a photographer, book an officiant, choose flowers ..."

The first person I told was my friend Oliver, who goes to UCLA. It was back in November, and I was in the middle of e-mailing him one of the banal letters we usually mail each other. This time, however, I was actually serious, and I wrote him about how I was thinking of proposing to my girlfriend, Cara. It was the kind of heartfelt pouring of emotions two good friends should be able to share. Or so I thought.

The response I got from him the next day was ... well, rather than writing it, I'll describe it. Basically, it was one "N" followed by about 500 "o"'s and 250 exclamation points - one long "Nooo!!"

It was the kind of stereotypical, generic male response a guy could expect from his best friend. I can't wait for his best man's speech.

Despite my valiant attempts to avoid being the stereotypical boyfriend-turned-fiance, I have failed. Leaning close to Cara, I said, "I'd like to know if you'll marry me," and then a split-second later, all control over the arrangements was lost. It was like the Big Bang Theory, and I was the lonely spark who started it all.

I was clueless when it came to buying the ring, and I'm clueless when it comes to making plans. A week after telling my parents, my mom asked me, "So, have you decided anything yet?"

"About what?" I asked her.

"What do you think?" she said. "Your engagement!"

"Oh. No, not really," I told her. "Geez, Mom, it's only been a week."

The good thing is that Cara is not one of the stereotypical, Hollywood-like fiances, the ones who rush around and make a million arrangements while the male sits clueless in the dark. (Well, half that last statement is right.)

Recently we finally decided on a date. Actually, she suggested it, and I agreed. That's pretty much how it goes: She suggests it, I agree.

"How about this time next year?" she asked me.

"Sure," I said.

"How about we have it outside?"

"Sure."

"How about we have it on the moon?"

"Sure."

Trouble is, it doesn't work the other way around.

"Hey," I asked her, "I was thinking about wearing one of those shirts that has the picture of a tuxedo on it. What do you think?"

Needless to say, my opinion doesn't carry too much weight anymore.

I'm poor now. But that's not from buying the ring. I was poor before that too, but I was still apparently rich enough to establish a line of credit with the jewelry store. Ha, ha. Fools.

For three months, I wondered whether I should ask her. When I finally decided I would, I went out and looked at rings. During the time in between buying it and asking her, I solicited advice from friends in order to settle another key issue: how I was going to ask her.

Since we were going to the Phoenix Suns game the intended night of the proposal, one friend suggested I call the team office and ask to put "Will you marry me" up on the big screen. But then I envisioned her possible response: a huge "N" followed by about 500 "o"'s all up there for 19,000 people to see. I nixed the idea.

Even when I wasn't seeking advice, people offered it anyway. During class, about three days before I planned on doing it, a friend wrote, "So, have you figured out how you're going to ask her?" on a piece of paper and showed it to me. I wrote back, "No." She then leaned over and, in my notebook, wrote, "She's been waiting for this moment her whole life - don't just wing it."

Thanks for taking the pressure off.

Driving to Phoenix that evening, I truly thought I could stay cool. Despite the fact that my hands got cold and clammy every time I thought about it, I envisioned myself as a variation of a silky smooth Don Juan - Don Phan, if you will.

I wasn't.

While we were at the game, whenever Cara grabbed my hand, she would ask, "Why are they so cold?" I would yank it back and say, "Uh, no reason," all the while thinking, She knows.

Afterward, at dinner, I was positive she knew why I was so jumpy, why I couldn't sit still. I asked her if she wanted to get a drink after dinner, at this restaurant that my friend said overlooked the city.

My friend didn't tell me, however, that there were two restaurants at this resort, and the one I went to didn't have a view of anything but the parking lot. Moreover, when we got there, Cara said, "God, the people in this bar are so cheesy. Look at it, it's so clubhouse-like."

It's hard to describe how many thoughts went through my mind at that point, but one of them was that the last place she wanted to be asked was in a place that was "cheesy" or "clubhouse-like." When we finished our drinks, she suggested I follow her back to her house. But as we walked out, I asked if she wanted to take a short walk outside.

Under a streetlamp in the middle of a posh hotel parking lot, I asked her to marry me. With my heart pounding out of my chest, I slipped the ring on her finger. It didn't fit. But she said yes, so that's all that counts.

Somewhere, I thought I heard a Big Bang going off.

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