Save the Date!!

Save the Date? Sorta like "Save the Whales"? No?

What's with the "save the date" cards? And "Save the Date" announcements? There are even "Save the Date" fridge magnets, fer cryin' out loud. When did they start? They certainly didn't have them the last time I got married.

But I am indeed getting married , and weddings require invitations, and invitations, so I'm given to understand, are to be preceded by "Save the Date" cards. Sheesh.

When I agreed to get married, ten years after the initial proposal, I wanted a teeny tiny eentsy beentsy little minimalist ceremony, perhaps followed by a Big Party a while later. But my sweetie? He wanted a wedding.

We went round the loop. Church or not? Flowers, wedding party, favours, photographer? In town or out? Indoors or out? Live music, taped music, no music at all? Do we invite family, family and friends, just friends? If family, how far out do we cast the net?

And every time, I'd hit the wall of my complete and utter resistance to a Wedding.

Then one day, my sweetie speaks soothingly to the back of my head, the front of my head being firmly buried under my depairing arms, "You know, the legal part of the wedding takes maybe 90 seconds to perform." He should know. In his former life, he performed several hundred. I perk up.

"Ninety seconds?"

"Thirty, if you sign the forms ahead of time."

"So we could have a two-minute wedding?"

He could see the hope dawning in my eyes.

"Uh-huh."

"And that would be okay with you?" Because this wedding thing, it's always been his baby.

"Oh, love, I'd marry you any way you want. You know that."

He would, too. I know that. He'd have done it with no wedding at all, just me, him, the witnesses and a nameless officiant if I'd insisted, but knowing the importance of some public ceremony to him, I hadn't managed to bring myself to do that.

"A two-minute wedding is enough of a wedding for you? Really?"

Yes, really. So we're planning our wedding. Two hours of food and party, two minutes of ceremony. And I am actively enthused. My minimalist inclinations do keep bumping up against his traditional tendencies, though.

We work out the guest list.

"Okay," I smile. "That was easier that I feared. And I think I have everyone's email address, even!"

"E-mail? We're not doing invitations?"

"Invitations? Like, engraved and with reply cards?"

Blink, blink.

Our heads together, we scope out possible venues on my laptop.

He: "This place is lovely."

Me: "It's an hour out of town, though."

He: "How about this?"

Me: "It's awfully frou-frou."

"???"

I define frou-frou.

"Aren't wedding supposed to be a little frou-frou?"

"Not mine."

Blink, blink.

We find it, the perfect place. In our neighbourhood, with a room just the right size, cozy, warm, friendly. The staff know us. The cost is right.

It's a pub. An Irish pub. Our guests can toast us with Guinness.

"Will you want to decorate?" Hope the pub-lady asks.

"No."

"Yes."

Blink, blink.

She looks between the two of us. "Maybe something on the tables, some low, decorative item." I gesture a small dome shape with my two hands. "Maybe something to match on knee-wall by the stage, to bring it together." I'm good at one-the-spot compromise. He nods.

Hope the pub-lady wanders into the back with our file. We peruse the room again. Wooden floorboards, wide, worn, and creaking comfortably beneath our feet. Tiny stage set in an alcove on one wall, perfect for the trio who'll be performing. Deep red seating, dark wood chairs, tables, benches. The light streaming through the windows along one wall make it cozy, not gloomy.

We glance up. They're always here, so we'd not noticed them before. Ringing the room at the top of the walls are rows and rows of jaunty beer pennants. Guinness, Keith's, Corona, Kilkenney. Red, green and black, gold. Squares, rectangles, shields. Flutter, waver, flap.

We share a glance. We speak, simultaneously.

"They've got to go."

A marriage made in heaven. Even without a "Save the Date" card.