September 23rd, 2001: I marry in a beautiful ceremony that tells the world, "He's mine! Back da @#*% up! I'll cut ya!"
Me entering the cocoon of wedded bliss with a vodka on the rocks.
Keen readers of history might note that this date is strikingly close to another event that happened round about then.
And those who know me well know that my entire wedding was re-planned in a week, from soup to nuts. Or, more like, from cake to nuts. Everything but the dress, and the people getting married, changed. We pulled it off, thanks to a massive effort on the part of my family and friends. It's a great story for another time. I mean, heck, it's taken me five years to even mention my wedding, let alone show you people pictures. Be patient lambs!
Although many of our guests cancelled, the one with the whitest hair there is a 90-something year old relation who drove into Manhattan with her husband. She said, "We survived Hitler, lived through the Blitz in London...this wasn't going to stop us."
All in Fort Tryon Park agreed: this event's trauma < 9/11.
Of course last night I was on the phone with my mother who -- after relating how many people she knew seemed to be losing their grasp of dates -- asked of my marriage, "How long has it been now? Three years?"
This post has been a blatant ripoff, er, I mean hommage to Chris Regan's This Day in Mythstory.
