The only guests were a few turtles, a fat bloke in the background on a stand up paddle board and our five children, four of them from our previous unions and one 6 year old from ours.
It was as romantic as a wedding could be. We all laughed. We all cried. (And we cried again, but with laughter when we saw the douchey ‘can you both look at your rings’ snaps the photographer took!)
John and I have both been married before and we both had ‘The Big Wedding’. And while they were certainly fun, neither of us wanted to stress, the expense, the politics or the bridal bullshit that seems to accompany the modern day phenomenon of ‘The wedding factory’.
I didn’t want to worry about the seating conundrum, fearing that my big day would be ruined if our chairs didn’t look like they were auditioning for membership in the Klu Klux Klan.
I didn’t want to have to start arguing with John about Guest Eliminations on our new reality show Wedding Invitation Survivor – just who will make the cut - so we could stay in budget.
John and I still have friends from kindergarten. We have clearly not isolated or marginalised enough people in our lives to keep a wedding out of the red.
We worked out at one point that between us we had close to 400 guests. It was less of a wedding and more of an episode of This is Your Life.
I didn’t want to choose one of those cheesy invitations where we imply romance through fonts like Edwardian script or Lucinda.
I didn’t want to visit a single wedding reception centre and be told we’d need to make our booking 5 years in advance and budget $400 per head.
That's obscene for a crispy skinned Salmon and a $10 bottle of white.
I didn't want to think about seating arrangements, or cars, or accommodation, or hen’s nights.
I didn’t want to wear a fluorescent veil, go to a comedy club, get drunk and wake up with a giant penis strapped to my head. I do that most weeks.
I didn’t want to decide who would be the bridesmaids. Those personal female politics are diabolical. And most of my female friends don’t particularly like each other. Nor would they appreciate being dressed in matching frocks.
Although, I would find that very amusing. Especially my lesbian friend who only wears jeans.
I didn’t want to make a big entrance in a white dress. I’m 48. Not 28.
Instead of gasping ‘isn’t she beautiful’, they’d just be gasping. ‘Wow, she’s really let herself go’.
I didn’t want to agonise about my dress. Was it perfect? Was I too fat?
I didn’t want to sign up to a gym and have to pay for a personal trainer just to have my wedding body. Only to get fat at a later date.
I didn’t want wedding lingerie, wedding jewellery, or wedding shoes.
I didn’t want to engage that archaic practise of being given away by an old bloke when I’ve been financially independent for over 28 years.