I'm sure I was still sewing something. I had to have been.
By this time 15 years ago, the guests would all be tucked in their beds after the rehearsal dinner. I think the Dr. would have been polishing off a bottle of Southern Comfort or something goofy with his best man at the hotel, prepping for one last night of drunken memories as a single man, and the next morning's round of golf before the official duties called.
But I'm sure I was home sewing. Sure, my mom had helped me with identifying the bustle points on my train before the dinner. But I know I wouldn't have been able to sleep and I'm sure, given my procrastination about the rest of the major focal point of such a monumental occasion - the dress - I'm sure that it still needed some buttons, or some sequins, or some hooks somewhere . . . all I remember is my wedding dress wasn't finished until I walked down the aisle.
15 years ago, I wasn't The Wife. I was still The Fiancee. 15 years ago, I was headed to bed, hours from officially becoming Mrs Chako. 15 years ago, I was a nervous bride-to-bed, heading to bed by myself for one last time as a single woman.
Tonight I'm heading to bed by myself again, with almost 15 years of experience under my belt as The Wife.
No fancy lingerie or ridiculous up-dos or frothy white veils await me in the morning. Instead of girls in matching satin dresses tomorrow, I'll have two floppy-haired, lanky boys that look so much like their daddy to greet me and kiss me and hug me before they run off to school. And instead of white satin and lace, I'll don something more fitting for the cubicles, and head into the office for another day in corporate America.
And tomorrow night I'll go to bed with the first and only man I've ever said "I do" to.
What a long, strange trip it's been.