I am officially married. Well, I suppose that depends on what your definition of “officially” is.
See, our substitute Catholic priest from Africa who stepped in week-of to marry us since said original priest went on vacation (yes, our wedding was on his calendar when booked his vaca), decided to use white out on our marriage license. This is a major sin in marriage license world. Anyone who’s had to drive in traffic in the middle of your work day with your fiance – you both must be present – to hit one of the open hour windows of time at the Marriage License Registrar office, knows that you CANNOT edit, cross out, fix, white out or make mistakes on your license. This is said very strictly and very scarily. No problem. Not exactly no problem if your priest whom you left your papers with can’t read English perfectly.
A photo of us in the Admiral’s club (ballers) flying home from honeymoon… notice Paul’s ring.
Upon arriving home from our honeymoon as Paul carries me over the threshold (much more awkward than it sounds), we started sifting through the mail to receive three letters from the Marriage License Registrar—none marriage certs, only to find that the copy didn’t count and we have to have another form filled out by the priest and pay a fine. Awesome, because the first 100 bucks for the piece of paper wasn’t enough.
So of course we call the church to get ahold of the Father, thinking oh well, let’s just get the stupid thing signed and move on. Well guess who’s in Africa in a remote city with no email, no phone and no fax until August 11th? Yup, our priest.
And this brings us to the present. No marriage license, but not not-married, just here in limbo. So far it’s just like being not married. Everyone who told you that it feels the same isn’t lying to you. It does. But at least now I can say it for myself.