Remembering My Wedding Day (Getting Ready)

I’ve mentioned a couple times here that I had gotten the amazing chance to photograph my first wedding for a long-time friend of mine. Well, the big day has finally come and gone! Last Friday consisted of me taking the day off work, sleeping in, not being able to sit still for the next three hours after waking up, and finally making my way into the mountains to the wedding venue with Ryan, my trusted second shooter. Guys, I can see why husband and wife teams seem to have the most fun together. I’m so glad he was able and willing to help me.

The whole experience brought me right back to our own wedding day. As we watched the chaos last weekend of wedding party and family arriving hours before the ceremony, trying to help set up and get ready for photos, I remembered our own frantic gathering of picture frames and table numbers and seating charts and guest books and all of my outfit accessories. And when the next morning I began going through the photos I took, I found myself also going back through the photos taken of my wedding, by the amazing Sweet William Photography. (And I’ve decided, after now having done a wedding myself, that Will is probably a wizard. He is so. good.) The memories just kept pouring in.

Getting ready.

I woke up long before I wanted to on my wedding day. As much as I tried to will myself back to sleep for another couple of hours, it was not going to happen. I dragged myself out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, my stomach a knot of nerves. To-dos were still streaming through my head. After my mom took the time to make eggs for breakfast, and we had the chance to sit around the table and eat with our family staying with us, we all got to work on throwing the rest of the wedding together. My mom made my wedding cake, so she had tending to that to do, while everyone else began getting the arch decorated with flowers and I set forth on printing out our seating charts and getting photos in their frames. I hit panic mode when I couldn’t find the prints for a good several minutes, and when it reached 12:30 and I told my maid of honor I hadn’t even had the opportunity to shower yet, she was a doll and ordered me to do so.

Getting ready.

After that, the house entered a state of greater chaos as more family and my bridal party began to arrive little bits at a time, though every one of them was as helpful as could be. One of my bridesmaids, Madison, called me as she was heading over and asked if I wanted her to pick me up something to eat on her way. “I’m not really hungry,” I told her. “I had eggs earlier.” Apparently, I can’t eat when I’m nervous. But that Madison, she kept prying until I conceded to having a mini mac and cheese. Good thing I have friends who know what’s best for me when I can’t think.

Getting ready.

This luck became even more apparent when it came time for us to make our way to the wedding venue. It was greatly disorienting leaving the house not carrying a thing, while my beloved bridesmaids all made sure to pack up all of the decorations along with my dress and veil. And my shoes, which I totally would have forgotten if it weren’t for my maid of honor. Point two for her. Point three goes to her, too, for calling me on our way to make sure I’d remembered to bring my birth control. I hadn’t.

As seems to be the theme for weddings everywhere, we were running late getting to the venue and starting the photos. At one point, I had two people working on my hair and one person doing my makeup, as I sat there trembling that we wouldn’t have time to get all the photos in, or that one of our vendors wouldn’t show up (which is a whole other story I may get to in some other post), or that the rest of the family would for some reason or another not arrive in time for photos beforehand. Yes, I think I’d classify myself as a worrier.

Getting ready.

We did, in fact, start the ceremony late, but it was no fault of our own, and frankly by that point I wasn’t even remotely keeping track of the time.

You know what’s funny? If I didn’t have the memories associated with the craziness of this day, I’d look at these photos and think everything looked so put together. So Pinterest worthy. I guess that’s the beauty of a great wedding photographer. They capture the best, the beautiful. Thank you always to the amazing Sweet William Photography!

The story of our wedding is to be continued (as I tend to babble on a bit)…

love always, Delia

It’s a love story // I met my husband when I was 14.

I promised that I would delve into some personal stories on the blog, so here goes! Introducing my new series,

it's a love story

The night I met Ryan was the night of my first high school party. It was Halloween in 2005, just before my 15th birthday. I spent the earlier part of the evening getting dressed in my black leotard, tights, and skirt ensemble, complete with some ears and a tail for what I hoped was a just-sexy-enough black cat costume. (Which in hindsight was probably pretty conservative, seeing as my dad let me leave the house, and I was never that scandalous anyway.)

I was nervous. Though I didn’t know I would be meeting the boy I would end up marrying, I was fully aware that this was the first social event I would be attending as a high schooler. And I knew that probably, most of the people there would already know each other, because most of my classmates had begun their years at our school in sixth grade. Meanwhile, I didn’t know the majority of those people who knew each other. It’s the shy introvert’s nightmare.

But I was also kind of excited. After all, Aspen had invited me. And another new friend of mine who was also a new student at our school could be my new person buddy. And it was my first “real” high school party.

So I showed up pretending to exude confidence in my little black outfit. And I stared about the room at all of the unfamiliar faces smiling behind costumes. I noticed one boy in particular amongst the crowd. My first image of him remains so clear in my memory now, and yet, for some reason I couldn’t tell you what exactly his costume was. He wore some sort of long, blonde wig, along with a white sleeveless shirt and jean jacket. But I don’t really remember seeing anything other than his big brown eyes and toned arms shown off out of the sleeveless shirt.

I watched him from across the crowded room. I overheard him flirting with a few girls, one of whom being my fellow new student companion.

But the night went on, and I was able to lose myself enough to dance freely in the dark, party-lit room full of strangers with my new friends. I danced and laughed and danced some more, and at some point I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face the big brown eyes I’d been watching from a distance. “Do you want to dance?” he asked. It was the first time a boy had ever asked that of me.

Of course, there being no other answer, I said yes. And as we danced, I wondered what might become of this. Would he try to kiss me? Would I let him? Would this become into anything? Or would this just become the most G-rated of all one night stands—a good story to tell friends about the cute boy I danced with that one time? I could have had no idea.

He didn’t try to kiss me—which was frankly a relief, since being a never-been-kissed fourteen year old, I would have had no idea what to make of it. But he did ask me for my name.

“Delia,” I said.

“I’m Ryan,” he said. Then he asked for my phone number.

I panicked. I’d never been asked that before. Does it show desperation if you give a guy your phone number? What if he’d take that as me being an easy catch and he never called? What if he did call and my dad answered? Even back then, I thought too much.

So I told him I didn’t give out my phone number. But I did tell him that he should find me on MySpace. (Oh, the time of MySpace.)

He proceeded to make sure that he knew exactly how to spell my name so that he could find me. His friend who was with him at the party likes repeating this part of the story: “D-E-L-I-A. D-E-L-I-A. Ben, don’t let me forget. D-E-L-I-A,” Ryan supposedly chanted to him after I left.

Don’t worry. He didn’t forget.

to be continued…