Seventeen years ago today was my wedding day.
It was a warm, Indian summer day in San Francisco. The afternoon before, I ran around town, doing final wedding errands, in shorts and a t-shirt.
It was also Fleet Week in SF, as it is now, the weekend punctuated by the roar of the Blue Angels overhead. I love that we got married while the Blue Angels were in town, and that they always highlight our anniversary by returning.
Our rehearsal dinner, seventeen years ago last night, was at a boisterous, kooky Italian restaurant, followed by a gathering of friends at a hipster bar—even though it was way before bars were described as “hipster.”
The wedding day itself was, naturally, a whirlwind. And perfect. I was nervous—not about getting married, but about the event. And excited—about getting married and the event.
And I was very, very present to love.
After the ceremony—during which I mostly, elatedly, cried—there were cocktails and toasts. There was a salmon dinner. There was dancing and tiramisu.
Seventeen years ago.
A lifetime.
A nanosecond.
Both the calendar and the roar of the Angels bring it all back. Again, I’m filled with love and appreciation. Again, filled with tears of happiness. And again, anticipating a salmon dinner.
