It’s now less than two weeks until our wedding, and I’m like:
I’ve been following a checklist on a popular wedding website, and along with such feminism-destroying tips as “Start your wedding diet!” and “Explore teeth whitening options!”, it also informed me last week that it was time to obtain our marriage licence.
A marriage licence. Now this sounded serious. The term evoked Victorian imagery in my mind, and I pictured a court of high justice with bewigged elders bestowing this all-important document upon us. I prayed there wouldn’t be any kind of dowry involved because with this wedding I am seriously broke as hell.
We filled out a simple form online, printed it off, and walked into Toronto City Hall the next morning. Already, I was disappointed by the lack of ceremony. I would have liked to have been heralded in by velvet-coated trumpeters announcing our intention to marry.
Instead, we walked into a dreary scene and were asked to take a number. There were dozens of people in line and my heart immediately swelled at the would-be married couples. Then I realized that the line forked in two directions, and that everyone except for us was waiting for employment insurance.
So we proceeded to the front of our line and were greeted by a middle-aged balding, bespectacled man in a sweater vest. Wow, this guy really won the city worker lottery, I thought, gazing sympathetically at the sad, disgruntled employment insurance claim processor to our left.
But sadly, Tobias Fünke 2.0 didn’t seem to have picked up on his good fortune.
“ID’s please”, he said dryly.
As he looked over our IDs, I steeled myself for the long and formal interview process that would inevitably follow. After all, they don’t just let anyone get married, do they?
Instead, he looked up and said “Ok, let me just print your licence now.”
That was it? No interview? No quality control? I thought about standing up and screaming “I AM UNDER DURESS!” just to see what would happen, but in the end, thought better of it.
He walked over to a 90’s-era printer, and returned with a long piece of white paper. “Here’s your marriage licence” he said, nonchalantly.
I gazed dejectedly at the unassuming, legal-sized sheet. I had been expecting a gilded scroll; perhaps tied with a peacock feather. Couldn’t they at least have thrown in a little parchment? Give me something to Instagram here.
“Give that to your officiant.” He added, unceremoniously. “And Good luck”. Did I detect the faintest hint of sarcasm?
I walked out on to Queen Street in a daze, fully qualified to marry, and fully convinced I watch way too many movies.