So, I uh, got married the day after Christmas. 

For health insurance. It was cold as balls that morning, and we had to wait outside for at least ten minutes, half an hour early for our 10:45 slot. 

My mother is almost 80. But she handled it better than me. And my (now) husband. 

I always tell him he’s the Olympic Silver Medalist in complaining. My father took the Gold. They say you marry your parents, but dad was a Brooklyn Jew raised in Flatbush and my (now) husband is a first-gen Chinese American from the Chinatown projects. He prefers American Chinese, if you please. One of the least political guys you’ll meet, but he’s smart like that. 

Sometimes he reminds me of my dad. Mostly, not.

Queens Borough Hall squats on the corner of Queens Boulevard and Grand Central Parkway, an unambitiously awful red brick building with six concrete columns blocking the front entrance.

The Office of the City Clerk is even worse. A drab little beehive of cheerful bureaucracy. But this is the “World’s Borough” and the people-watching is superb. 

A flock of nonbinary goths in head-to-toe black and metal studs conferred, checking their paperwork and patting their pockets for rings. An Indian family argued quietly behind us, cocooning their young couple from the crowd. Aunties in saris side-eyed the goths, and my mother whispered too loudly about their lovely jewel-toned clothes. Black women decked out in full American bridal wear at the head of the line had us all beat, bouquets clutched tightly in their hands. We were all a little nervous. My fiancé and I waited patiently, dressed in jeans and fleece. Thank goodness, my mom classed us up a bit. 

The room where we were married looked like an ICE detention facility. I wouldn’t joke about something like this. 

Stained, polyester carpet mats, two plain wooden benches, a torn Kleenex box lying abandoned on one of them. Plus, one tragic handwritten sign reading, “Congratulations” scotch-taped above the door. My mother stood to witness, and take pictures with her cell phone. I still can’t believe I left the apartment with my hair like that. The county clerk was trim and reassuringly efficient in every way. When she smiled, I felt it in my cheeks.

No one tells you how weird it is to stand hand-clasped in front of the guy you’ve been sitting next to on the couch for the past eighteen years, gazing into his eyes, making those vows. Somehow, I thought the words would be different. Less official. It was hard to keep a straight face. My fiancé gave me that look… you know the one. 

Saw you go nuclear because you don’t know how to work Excel, watched as you sprinkled tiny raw onion pieces on top of your bialys every morning, listened to you bitch about the subway for hours. Yet…

We haven’t told many people. Doesn’t make a difference. Our tiny one-bedroom smells exactly the same. But every once in a while, I turn my head to watch your face while you sleep. Smile to myself and think. 

I’m married now.