Savoring the Ordinary
Vegas Vows, Divorce and Sobriety in San Francisco
Little White Chapel (photo by Jemimah Gray)
Yesterday was my seven-year wedding anniversary and I completely forgot—pretty wild considering I just finalized the long-drawn-out divorce papers for that marriage days ago. Life has a sneaky way of carrying on while you’re still catching your breath. In the midst of early recovery or grieving, sometimes the best you can hope for is that time starts to blur again and simply existing won't seem like such a monumental task.
I was walking my dog to the beach to meet my partner, who was trying to catch his first wave of the “San Francisco Summer” which marks the end of the season for the rest of the country. The day was perfectly uneventful—sunny, mellow, predictable just like the day before and the day before that. Not long ago, I’d frequently chase adrenaline, distractions, and bad decisions (with pickleback shots). Anything for escapism in the form of alcoholism. And when the comedowns became unbearable, I started fantasizing about something different. Something simple. Wholesome, like sitcoms I’d watch when I was hungover. The last few years, I could finally see the appeal of a life like Modern Family and less like Rock of Love starring Poison frontman Bret Michaels.
Addiction convinced me normal was out of reach—that I’d never find joy in the ordinary even if it became available to someone like me. But as I sat on a familiar sand dune, pleading with my dog for the hundredth time to quit eating washed-up crab carcasses, it hit me: I made it. Not in a rags-to-riches way, but in the "I’m just a boring human doing boring stuff" kind of way. This revelation was akin to finding a chest of gold buried in the sand, I never would’ve seen it coming. Even in San Francisco.
Baker Beach, San Francisco
Seven Years Earlier
My eyes were burning more than usual as I squinted at the fuzzy red numbers on the clock: 7:52 a.m. I had eight minutes to lie there, figure out what was happening today, and make a plan to survive it. "Survive it"—what an interesting turn of phrase for your wedding day. It’s not that I didn’t want to get married, but after drowning in a trough of whiskey for the past six days, my body and spirit weren’t exactly ready for a Vegas elopement.
I’d planned to stop drinking yesterday, but my hangover was so brutal that I went straight for some hair-of-the-dog. And before I knew it, I’d devoured the whole dog. So, packing a suitcase? Shopping for a wedding dress? Flying to Vegas? Ha! Oh shit, I still didn’t have a wedding dress. I figured I’d pick one up on the way to the airport like I was grabbing a caramel macchiato.
After a bender like that, I knew no supply of caffeine, greasy eggs, or cold showers could get me out the front door on time. Once again, I had to call on my trusted friend Jack—Daniels, that is. Oh who am I trying to convince? It was probably Kentucky Deluxe. The goal was simple: enough to function, but not enough to black out and ruin my wedding before even getting down the aisle. The clock was ticking: ten hours to manage this impossible balancing act.
8 a.m: it was game time. I filled half a coffee mug with KD and held my nose. The first shot went down like gasoline and I ended up hugging the porcelain throne. Round two was a success. Progress.
“What the flying fuck happened to my face?” The reflection staring back at me from the mirror had a gnarly black eye. My initial reaction wasn’t so much shock as it was a weary acknowledgment of yet another obstacle to dodge today. Mystery bruises came and went like visits from old friends and I wasn’t about to jump to conclusions of foul play. Most likely, my new black-and-blue accessory was the result of a staircase that had it out for me.
As I took another swig, I couldn’t help but feel the wave of shame wash over me. What kind of moron gets themselves a black eye the night before their wedding? After doing my best to cover up the damage, I grabbed my suitcase and a water bottle filled with whiskey, hopped into an Uber, and directed the driver to the nearest Nordstrom Rack. I had exactly $60 and 45 minutes to find a wedding dress before heading off to Vegas.
Forty-five minutes later, I emerged from the dim dressing room, drenched in sweat from trying on discounted, defective dresses I never pictured wearing on my wedding day. I settled for a curve-hugging ivory number, its shoulder straps hanging two inches too low. It was the best I could do. Tears threatened to well up in the corners of my eyes—I hated this dress. But a shotgun wedding dress seemed fitting since neither my partner nor I ever planned for this day. I told myself it wasn’t the dress that mattered, but who I was marrying. I had to keep it together; there was no time to cry or process anything.
At Austin International Airport, I dragged a carry-on filled with loose makeup, questionable lingerie, my sad girl wedding dress, and a water bottle with 2 ½ shots of whiskey in it. I downed my shots in the bathroom, stashed the bottle in the tampon disposal bin, and headed for the inevitable pat-down line. In an effort to ease my airport anxiety, I always ended up looking suspicious—oversized sunglasses, headphones, uncontrollable fidgeting, and sweating like a whore in church. I blamed my disproportionate clown breasts (thanks, Mom) for the frequent too intimate screenings.
After some quick titty play by a TSA agent with dead eyes, I was free to explore Terminal B. I bar-hopped through the terminal and sent nudes to my fiancé from the airport bathroom until it was time to board. For the first time that day, I had a moment to reflect on what this all meant. Just four hours ago, I’d been dry heaving in the bathroom; now, I was buzzing, radiant, and on my way to get married. Would there be a parade waiting for me as soon as I hit the Las Vegas tarmac? Maybe someone would hand me a tiara and sash as I exited the plane. It was my special day, after all.
I plopped down at the end of the bar at a Mexican restaurant called “Something, Something, and Tequila,” ordered a shot of Don Julio and a beer to keep things chill. Before airports ever started giving me anxiety, I actually enjoyed them. A twenty-something brunette with a pixie cut, funky faux leather bell bottoms, and an orange, shaggy vest sat down next to me. She ordered Don Julio, too. Her choice of pants and booze gave me a strange sense of comfort.
“Final boarding call for flight 402 to Las Vegas.”
I settled into my aisle seat next to a middle-aged platinum blonde in rubber sequined sandals by the window, leaving the middle seat open. I sent a quick prayer to the whiskey gods, hoping to avoid another flatulent, nervous flier as a seatmate. That’s when SHE walked in—the brunette goddess from the tequila bar and the last one to board before they closed the cabin door. I found myself hoping she’d sit beside me again and she did.
Normally, I’m not one to strike up conversations on airplanes, but today was different. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I found myself introducing myself to my seatmates. I asked the goddess where she’d gotten her pants and why they were each heading to the city of sin. Cheryl, the blonde, was off to her sister’s bachelorette party. She was planning to get plastered on margaritas and scope out the hot talent at the hotel pool. I liked her immediately. The brunette in the funky pants was Raz, and she was visiting her long-distance boyfriend, a much older musician from Vegas. We all seemed to have some things in common: a love for drinking to oblivion and debating which member of Nirvana had the smallest pecs.
When the stewardess came around with the drink cart, I was the first to order: Deep Eddy Lemonade Vodka with orange juice. My seatmates followed my lead and I was delighted. I told them I was getting hitched, and they squealed and “oohed” over photos of my fiancé. I also confessed my fear of commitment and my habit of ending relationships over a dead phone battery or hint of a bad mood. They bought me another shot, held my hand, and reassured me that everything would be okay. After sharing so much, it only felt right to invite them both to my wedding that night. Cheryl said she’d come if she had time, and Raz promised she’d be there. I suspected Raz was just being polite, but I appreciated it nonetheless.
In no rush to finish getting ready for my forthcoming nuptials, we grabbed to-go beers and took drunken selfies in the shuttle at the Vegas airport. We hugged goodbye, declaring ourselves best friends forever and went off on our separate adventures. Tipsy and nervous, I saw the groom’s face for the first time in weeks. His initial irritation over my delayed arrival melted as I threw myself into his arms. The smell of his Camel cigarettes and my cold sweat washed over me and made everything suddenly feel real.
After a quick stop at the courthouse, we met his best friend Casey, who took us to a crowded pawn shop on the Strip to pick out our rings. My fiancé chose a gold band with four little purple gems, while I opted for a dark silver ring with intricate details and a large red oval stone. I wasn’t sure what it was made of, but I loved it and didn’t want a flashy ring that looked like everyone else’s. Not that a diamond was ever an option. “B” mentioned how much he liked the energy of holding both rings, and I took a mental snapshot of his face. My heart was buzzing like a Starbucks at 7:59 in the morning.
We reached our large suite at the Hooters Hotel and Casino (now OYO) with an hour to spare before the wedding. I had just enough time to do my makeup, fix my hair, and down a couple more drinks. An hour later, my makeup was a mess, and the dress was even worse. I wanted to cry and wished I’d had more than two days to prepare and create a look I actually liked. Canceling minutes before walking down the aisle didn’t feel like an option. I had to go through with it, feeling like a drunk ogre, exhausted and with no one I loved there to share it with. That’s what I’d signed up for. I spent my last moments at the vanity, chugging the last beer and punching myself in the leg to distract from the sense of burning uncertainty creeping over me.
I walked into the Little White Chapel, the very same place where our lord and savior Britney Spears had married childhood friend Jason Alexander thirteen years earlier. Inside, twenty young European au pairs, dressed like bottle girls at a strip club, were giggling and chattering loudly in different languages. They were our wedding guests. My fiance was their professional tour guide making a pit stop to marry me on their way to the Grand Canyon. To make matters worse, they were all impeccably made up, which only made me run away more. I needed a drink.
Just then, Raz glided into the chapel in a glitzy gold top and her musician king in matching pants. She hugged me and told me I looked beautiful. My heart melted, and I was incredibly grateful to see a somewhat familiar face. She held my purse for me and used my phone to snap dozens of blurry photos throughout the ceremony.
My partner looked dapper in a silver Western-style suit he’d found at a thrift store on his way to Vegas. I was the worst dressed person at my own wedding. My brain couldn’t compute what was happening so I cried and laughed through the whole ceremony, unsure what to do with my face. That must not be common practice for a bride because the officiant asked me twice if I was okay. I silently begged her with my red, tear-streaked face to stop embarrassing me. How dare she make me look crazy on my special day? At some point I threw the bouquet when I wasn’t supposed to and had to TURN AROUND AND PICK IT UP. After I said “I do,” I whispered something scandalous to my new husband that everyone heard. If there’s ever been a classier bride, I’ve never heard of her.The night ended by getting drunk with my new husband at the casino bar and furthermore in the suite’s jacuzzi tub.
Afterwards, I rushed back to Austin, Texas alone, a newly wed woman, just ahead of the infamous Hurricane Harvey and not long before the inevitable collapse of my first marriage.
My little life in San Francisco feels worlds away from the literal and metaphorical hurricanes of seven years ago. Treating myself with kindness has attracted kindness back into my life. My lovely partner is nice to me. Not just on good days but on bad ones, too. We scored a charming little house by the beach, and each day is full of simple pleasures—coastal drives, plant shopping, foggy mornings, new gym routines and the friendly nods from my neighbors on my daily walkabouts.
Day by day, and one day at a time, I’m learning how to slow down and embrace the wide range of emotions we are all so blessed and cursed with. I’ve left behind a life of destruction and isolation for warmth and connection, knowing now it’s possible to find solace after the storm. If the walls of my SF home could talk, they might call me boring, maybe even straight-edge. They’ve never seen me drunk. Hopefully, they never will. I’d say I’d never marry in Vegas again but I probably would, I still like to surprise myself sometimes.
