When The Boy and I first got engaged, I did that thing. That thing where you become obsessed with wedding inspiration on Pinterest, and your head is filled with images of mason jars, and glitter, and peonies. But as soon as that first wave passed, I realized something important: I do not care about having a real wedding. Do not misunderstand me: I love pretty things, and parties, and farms (I mean, seriously). But it was way more important to me that we have the kind of wedding where everyone has a blast, and eats good food, and laughs a lot, and maybe I would wear sneakers. And I could think of no better place to have such a wedding than in The Boy’s backyard.
That yard was a part of our relationship back before we even had a relationship. It was a long, hot day during a long, hot summer when I laid on the grass in that yard and looked at this boy who was still just a friend, and I thought to myself “I’m going to marry him one day.” That yard was the witness to so many stolen kisses, and late night bonfires, and spontaneous campouts, and Saturday dinners made on the grill, and drunken firework shows. We used to fall asleep on the trampoline on warm summer nights. I used to read my book on his back steps while he fixed someone’s car in the driveway (because there was always a car that needed work). I used to wake up early in the morning, and sneak out to the yard while he was still asleep, and pick raspberries and blackberries for breakfast. And there was a whole other ragtag gang of friends who treated that yard as their own, too, who came and went as they pleased, and the most wonderful kinds of commotions were always happening there. It was the kind of place where you could swing by on a whim without calling, and half of your other friends would already be there drinking beers. In short, it was magic.
So when I got past all the bloggy-glittery-mason jar stuff, I realized what I wanted more than anything was to walk out of his backdoors in my wedding dress, down the deck stairs, and across the lawn. I wanted to get married on a hot summer day in this place that had provided so much context for our love. But there was a hitch: the house was for sale. We just couldn’t bank on it still being around next year.
So The Boy and I did something really impulsive last week, and we’re still kind of reeling from the decision. We’re getting married this year. In July. In the yard. And on the one hand I have not spoken to anyone about anything other than wedding planning for five days, and sometimes I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about table runners. But it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore, because once all this craziness is said and done, I’m going to walk across that yard and marry my best friend in the exact same spot where we had our very first date. And that feels like magic.