A More Perfect Union.

I couldn’t decide what to post today—more Alexa Abroad! or something about Simone’s first encounter with other children, an encounter that resulted in tears. Some might suggest that ten days after my return is too late to continue a series of posts about my travels, but I have not, er, finished unpacking yet, and I maintain that a person can’t be expected to wrap up the story of her trip before her suitcases are empty. That seems like rushing things, don’t you agree?
So it was between goat pictures and toddler comedy, and then the California Supreme Court went and made the decision for me.

Two years ago today, Scott and I got married. The picture at the beginning of this post is of our cake toppers, and from those cheery felted birds to the mashed potatoes and impromptu outdoor hobo theater, everything about the day was perfect. I had never been much of a wedding girl, and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it, but more surprising, to both me and my new husband, was how transforming it felt.

Scott and I had lived together for years by the time we got married. In fact, a week from now will mark five years since we began dating, and we were looking at apartments less than three months after that. We hadn’t planned on marriage—not that we were against it, mind you, it just seemed like a low priority. We already knew that this was capital-”I” IT: we were trying to have kids, our book collections had mingled, and I had long since abandoned the pretense that I always wore makeup. Or contacts. Or brushed my hair.

One afternoon, however, I had a migraine, and Scott was lounging on the bed next to me when he asked hey, did I want to get married next spring? I said yes. It seemed unlikely that a ceremony would make much difference, beyond a legal standpoint.

But it did. I don’t know how, exactly, but it made everything different.

The idea that two adults in love can be banned from standing, as we did, in front of a judge to be declared married, banned because their genitals happen to match, is repugnant. That they would be forced to use another word for their union, in the name of protecting the sanctity of mine, is ridiculous and offensive.
I respect the right of the religious to believe in virgin birth, and to decide that marriage in their church is reserved for heterosexuals, but there is absolutely no justification for the legal system to enshrine this discrimination. If anything makes my marriage feel smaller or less meaningful, it is the meaningless borders set upon it as an institution.

In a few hours, Scott and I are going out to dinner to celebrate our arbitrarily legal union. Perhaps we’ll toast to the hope that one day, the presence of exactly one penis per couple will not be considered a prerequisite for a wedding.