We went to a wedding this weekend in the wine country.  I haven't had a salary in over 2 years and I work 18 hour days and not long ago my best friend's brain tried to explode out of her head and rampage around the country and kill us all (and nearly did...nearly did) and yet I still get to write sentences like "We went to a wedding this weekend in the wine country."  Life is full of small unexpected blessings.

So the h and I pulled our usual - waiting til the last minute to pack and then acting like we don’t' know how this happens to us. The small one zoomed between me, him, the bed and the suitcase, dribbling a soccer ball.   The h wanted to put his dop kit and shoes in my bag. I said fine except he has these big daddy shoes that take up all the room and furthermore crush dainty things,  so I take out my fancy clothes and put them on proper hangers next to the h's fancy clothes that are waiting to be toted out to the car.  Problem solved.

I throw some running shoes into the suitcase because YOU NEVER KNOW, and also three pairs of crocs - orange for the h (with skull and crossbones), pink for the little one (with lady bugs), white for me (with daisies). I take a moment to delight in their ugliness. Ha on the haters!

I pick out some earrings and a bracelet and a necklace and smile a little as I do so, because all three were gifts from the h, and I like the idea of being totally accessorized by my man, even if he doesn't notice (though I suspect he will - that's one of the reasons he is so great). 

We stop on our way to  pick up a  suitcase left behind by some ridiculous woman who can't remember to bring her wedding clothes to a wedding.  We make a big deal out of this, laughing at the picture of her standing around in her bra, garters and sensible beige pantyhose with high heels, wringing her hands and waiting for her dress to arrive. 

We get there in plenty of time, at least 20 minutes to dress and go. "There" is the home of my h's ex, who has generously offered to let us stay for the wedding weekend in their smashingly fabulous house, because it is our week to have the little one and in this way we can all go to the wedding and all hang with the little one, who is pleased as punch to have us all together and runs around in her silly pink crocs kicking the soccer ball until we are all about ready to go mad.  It's all very congenial and California and I am happy.

I line up my aging but sill fine finery:  spiky black shoes (Prada!) and  sheer navy stockings (Wolford!)  and my jewelry and then look around for my fabulous satin navy skirt that I bought for this occasion, bought specially for this occasion because the skirt can also be worn for three *other* special occasions I have on the books, thereby reducing the per wear cost to under $110  in just the first month of ownership, which makes it - according to Girl Calculus - a bargain with a capital Bee.

 Hon, where's my skirt I say and he fastidiously adjusts the lapels of  his vintage  bespoke jacket and says Huh?

My skirt, I say. My skirt and my.....

And we stare at each other while the little one passes the ball to herself and scores, making crowd sounds. 

You didn't bring my stuff to the car, I say flatly. 

I...thought you did.  His voice trails off as I hand him his big freaking daddy shoes, the shoes that bogarted half my suitcase space, the shoes I'd been thinking guaranteed the quid pro quo of the h toting my 5 ounce skirt and 3 ounce blouse to the car.

He stands there in his finery looking abashed.  

Sandra has no clothes! The little one gaily announces to her mom. 

Oh, wear something of mine then, her mom says generously, which is how I came to be sitting at a wedding in my husband's ex-wife's dress. 

It is an outdoor wedding and the bride looks like a mermaid with her curly fall of flame red hair and her creamy sequined vintage 30s dress she bought at a funky thrift store on  Haight Street.  She is pregnant, her skin glowing fantastically in the roseate evening light.  Her groom, beaming, wears a beautifully cut Tom Wolfe ice cream suit and a gold fedora that somehow works. 

We sit in our chairs and feel the legs sinking slowly into the sod, the earth releasing a mulchy perfume.  I slip off my shoes and feel the bare grass between my toes and watch the happy couple glowing at one another.

There is a moment when the handsome theatrical rabbi pauses to let his words sink in - I don't remember exactly, only that he says this, what the couple is doing, it is about more than love, it is about caring and commitment, kindness and respect and I think yes, yes it is, and I think how glad I am glad that there is such a thing as marriage.  It may not be for everyone, I get that.  But what an undertaking! How noble and foolish we are to entrust our hearts to such a crazy journey, all on the strength of the way we feel in that moment, looking at her fantastic red hair or his crazy gold hat and thinking yeah, this is what I want, I'm sure of it. Even if it all changes, I'm sure of it. 

The sun sat poised just behind a mountainy hill  and we sat in our orderly flower-bedecked white folding chairs with the pond reflecting the pinkly glowing  sky and at that exact moment  a flock of ducks whirred low overhead, silent except for the sound of the wind rushing through the thousands of tiny feathers that kept them miraculously aloft.  They flew off into the gloaming and everyone looked happily, almost superstitiously surprised at this unexpected benediction. It was all I could do not to applaud.

We had dinner in a candlelit wine cave and a nice man seated next to me introduced himself and I introduced myself and he says to me, I know who you are.  I say, is that a fact and the man to his right averred it was true, they all know who I am.   They laugh at my look of mild alarm and then explain how they'd just met the h at the recent bachelor party, where each of the attendees had made good natured jokes about some of the more challenging moments of being married. 

Except your husband they say.  HE didn't joke about marriage,  this duo informs me. 

Oh really, I think I said.  I admit I was still distracted by  my relief that the h's ex-wife's dress actually fit me (because if you're a woman reading this you can only imagine the horror of it *not* fitting and me having to find just the right tone as I admitted this).  I was still blessing my lucky stars that I did not have to have dinner in the wine cave dressed in my travel clothes which were jeans with the hippie-ish leopard print scarf I sometimes use as a belt plus a brown fleece vest. And crocs.

Instead  I was wearing my h's ex-wife's lovely navy silk chemise,  the pearl solitaire necklace the h gave me our fist Christmas together  sparkling around my neck, resplendent (or so I felt). 

 You look great! the h told me when I reluctantly slid the dress on.  He was right - it was a great dress and I had to admit it was a reasonable solution but I was annoyed that the h was getting off so easily, remembering his own clothes and those of a woman we didn't even know, but forgetting mine even as he bogarted half my suitcase room for his big daddy shoes (with shoe trees).

See! he said in his most annoying isn't-it-great-how-it-all-works-out tone.

You're living Woody Allen's life in a George Clooney body, I hissed at him, which was supposed to make him feel abashed but instead made him swell like a peacock and then spend the rest of evening attempting to feel the outlines of my thong through his ex-wife's dress when he thought no one was looking.  

So do you want to know what he said, the men at the table -  the bachelor party guys -  ask me.  I stop admiring my pilgrim-like fortitude in wearing my h's ex-wife's dress and say sure, ok, what'd he say? Now I am feeling  apprehensive.   I'd seen the bottle of tequila they'd left behind as they took off on their bachelor party evening. The h gets talky when he drinks tequila. 

The bachelor party guys  glance solemnly at one another, and one leans forward and speaks  clearly and carefully, as if his words are pearls he'd been tasked to deliver, one at a time, so that none were dropped or missed, so that I would get full value.

He said that he was married to the  most perfect woman in the world.  He said no one is happier than him. 

I looked over at the h, who grinned at me.  It's true! he said, and his eyes looked watery but maybe that was just the candlelight and the wine but then again maybe not, since he got out his clean white handkerchief and wiped them (his eyes, not the bachelor party guys). 

So  I went and sat in his lap and whispered, Are you crying and he admitted that he was, a little, but they were tears of joy, which I can assure you is not nearly as dorky as it sounds when it is happening to you.  You're wearing the earrings I gave you, he whispered, and I gave him a kiss and the reception bubbled around us like a tide, the voices and laughter  rising and falling and lapping at us like waves.