I didn't really want a wedding. 

The prospect of buying an overpriced dress in which to pose with overpriced flowers for countless cookie cutter photographs while hundreds of our 'closest friends and family' scrutinized my every move had never really appealed to me. So when my husband proposed, I begged him to elope.  

It's only because he said no that, a year ago today, we didn't. 

I grumbled.  I sighed.  I asked him again at least ten times. 

His desire to spend money on this, after all:

meant less left over for this:

But he longed for the extravagant party, so we threw one anyway.

It was my husband who envisioned a cake with ‘a cascade of sugar leaves’ and drew mock-up sketches for the baker.

and my husband who insisted on off-white linens so my dress would be the whitest thing in the room. 

He searched high and low for chocolate brown tuxes and whimsy orange socks, to maintain this ‘condensed color palette.' 

I just rolled my eyes.  Or laughed.  

Apart from insisting that our flower girls needed swishy dresses and that no ringbearer of mine would be forced to carry a cutesy satin pillow down the aisle, all I really did was chip in and show up.

But somehow, I'm still getting all the credit:  

People keep gushing about how beautiful it was, and he hasn't once bothered to set the record straight.

Photos by Terra Dawn Photography (except our empty glasses by the beach).