I Do, I Do! (Just Without All the Hassle)

If   you’ve read one story about eloping, you’ve pretty much read them all: So-and-so eloped in Hawaii — she wore a gorgeous but simple silk slip dress with flowers in her hair; he wore a linen suit. It was so romantic and spontaneous, and at a mere $7,000, way cheaper! As they exchanged their vows, pulled from the Zen Buddhist Kwan Um marriage ceremony, the setting sun bounced off the duo in a shimmer of camera-ready bliss. Back home, the happy couple dropped a measly $5,000 for a kickin’ party for friends and family. Everyone — and their tans — lived happily ever after.

Uh, sounds great, but what if you can barely scrape together 40 bucks — much less a plane ticket? And the dress? You were planning on donning your favorite and ridiculously comfortable black skinny jeans for the affair. After all, it’s pretty frosty in the middle of February. And as for a post-nuptial celebration? Well, you were kinda hoping there’d be a nice burger-and-beer joint around the corner from the county clerk’s office. You’ll worry about telling your friends and families later — hey, maybe you can convince a local rock club to let you rent the place for cheap to throw a big shebang later on.

It’s certainly not for everyone, but fear not, fellow level-headed minimalists: Such a no-fuss dream wedding can not only be had, it can be had for less than the cost of the fresh flowers at your cousin’s church shindig. In all, you could spend a mere $500 including license and clerk fees, a party at Mercy Lounge where you pay for the booze, and even your rings — look into tungsten carbide.

I met my future husband at Red Door East one night in November 2008. By Christmas, we knew something was up. Our rapport was an easy one; our attraction electric. With both of us passing or just past our late 20s, slurping two-for-one brews and making the rounds at local rock shows was beginning to lose its crusty charm. Plus, the Nashville dating scene is an incestuous beast to navigate. Play your cards wrong, and you might never escape these people.

One night we found ourselves at El Fandango, a shady immigrant bar on Nolensville Road that thrills for its novelty outside the typical Nashville bar circuit as much as its potential for actual danger. After getting frisked for weapons, we slurped on import beers and talked about What Matters. We both felt that basic compatibility was obviously a key component to relationship bliss, but that you couldn’t put a price on Willingness to Work Out Differences. Stick-with-it-ness was critical. Mutual support for individual ambition essential. The idea of living an interesting life, paramount. Kids? Maybe, maybe not. Either way’s cool.

Several Negro Modelos later, and one of us had proposed marriage. It was half-joke and half-dare, a slurry “oh-what-the-hay-what-if-we-just?” We didn’t know everything about each other, but we knew enough. And after all, you can know someone for years and never know them. You can spend, oh, say nearly nine years putting the time in with a dude only to realize all your cautionary instincts and reservations — the ones you felt a few months in — were, in fact, correct.

And I wasn’t really the “traditional” wedding type. Celebrating the old-fashioned property transfer traditionally? My feminist leanings would topple. Not to mention that the sheer hassle of the planning is enough to send me running. And the idea of front-loading one’s life with all the good stuff is irksome — if my wedding day is supposed to be some fairy tale, the most important or greatest day of my life, it could only go downhill from there. An interesting life is ideally made up of countless milestones, and spontaneity has always been a critical factor in the greatest days I’ve ever had.

By fate or folly, we found ourselves standing at the MetroCenter county clerk’s office applying for a marriage license a few days later. It’s worth noting right here that for $99.50 you can have one heck of an adventure for a whole month if you’re interested. One could fork over the benjamin, be married on paper — it’s not official without a licensed pro to solemnize the union, though — and go your separate ways.

We had 30 days to change our minds. But the crazy thing was, we didn’t want to. Something about this fella stuck and stuck hard. We knew we didn’t know jack about jack. And yet, the idea of a nobler purpose — of throwing it all in, working off a basic template of compatibility and nurturing the thing ... it was intoxicating.

Two days later, we’d made an appointment to be married by the county clerk. That next night was our last night as single folks, so we called our friends to get together for a pseudo bachelor/bachelorette party. The catch was we couldn’t tell them the occasion. I ended up with a few folks available, but his friends all had other plans, and not knowing the day’s significance meant they didn’t know what they were ditching on.

Coincidentally, we found ourselves back at Red Door East together having a low-key night.

The next afternoon, I grabbed a pair of black jeans off the floor, found a silk blouse with no visible stains, got nervously ready and waited for my now fiancé to pick me up. Driving to the clerk’s office was a blur, and the only thing I remember about waiting to be married was our discussion about needing cat food and jokingly asking my soon-to-be husband if he even knew when my birthday was. (He was off by one day, but I immediately forgave him). A couple ahead of us, with a few friends in tow, waited excitedly to get hitched.

Then it was our turn. Inside, the clerk — John Arriola himself — said something about where we should stand. I remember his genuine enthusiasm at marrying us, which struck me as odd given how many times he must have performed this simple ritual for complete strangers. But it was a supportive aura in an otherwise leap-of-faith moment. My fiancé’s hands felt sweaty, and mine were shaking, but we couldn’t break each other’s gaze.

It was over in what felt like 30 seconds. Afterwards, in an elated daze, we drove around in silence and awe over how big what we’d just done was. We wanted to celebrate in style, so we hit Rotier’s on Elliston Place and had two big, greasy cheeseburgers and beers. He already had champagne in the car as a surprise for later. We wouldn’t tell our families or friends or coworkers for even weeks, much less pick out rings any time soon. We didn’t have any pictures taken or a special program from the event.

A few weeks later, we hit the road for our honeymoon, broke the news to our families, and visited the coast. And a year later, there’s never been a shred of regret. It’s still our moment, our adventure, our way — simultaneously mind-boggingly huge and sweetly low-key. It was a perfect day, and we can only hope to preserve some shred of that offbeat spontaneity for the rest of our lives.

I feel obligated to divulge one catch, though (or maybe a handful): People will speculate that you’re either desperate or pregnant — possibly both. Families might feel a little miffed. Some folks will act like you didn’t have a “real” wedding. Friends will feel jilted. Your exes will think you’re crazy. His exes will suddenly try to hang out with him just to see what the hell they may have missed out on. People will text you things like, “Congratulations?” as if there’s a chance you might have been coerced. You will not get anywhere near as many presents.

But you will get loads more — an experience short on hassle and long on spontaneity. A day that feels just like the gamble marriage actually is. Part down-home scrimp, part dreamer’s zany caper, the decision to elope looks a lot like the decision to marry, only without the all the pomp and micromanaging from your mother. In my opinion, no one should blow their wad too soon on one day, one moment, one enormously expensive bill. The trick is to start modest and spend your married life — not your wedding — shooting for the moon.

Hey, you’re still getting a wedding. You’ll be just as nervous and just as excited, only without all the noise and chaos and worry and planning. Free from the constant chatter of anxiety, you’ll find yourself only thinking about two things: the person standing next to you, and the very amazing but crazy journey you’ve just embarked upon. And at that cost, the only debt you’ll be bringing into this union is  all those pitchers you drank in college at The Boro and were stupid enough to charge on your credit card.

Tracy Moore is a staff writer and special sections editor for the Nashville Scene. She is also a pop music apologist, noted contrarian, and the paper’s resident feminist.