The last few days I have been mulling over the most basic form of marriage ceremony of which I could conceive. And to which I could subscribe without cringing. To begin with, I would have to ask a woman to become my wife. And then, assuming her acceptance of my offer, I would have to start referring to her as my wife whenever I would mention her to others. This would satisfy all the requirements of marriage with least fuss. Not surprisingly, all this refers to my third and last marriage. My beloved and I exchanged our vows on February 27, 2004. On that date we signed our own marriage certificate, too. And I always refer to her as my wife when I mention her to others. Ours is surely a marriage at its most straightforward. Not even I could improve upon it after all these years.

Addendum (August 8, 2016)

This was written exactly eight years ago on the propitious day my No. 1 son got married in Motovun. It was the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year of the new millennium, no less. Propitious to boot. The wedding was quite a splash. My son brought with him a large number of friends, most of whom were from New York City, where he lives to this day. His mother came, as well, as did his wife’s parents and other relatives. The ceremony took place in Hotel Kaštel’s garden, and it was followed with a posh dinner. There were flowers everywhere. And there were many speeches, which were applauded with relish. The night ended with a huge and loud party on the upper square of the town. And so on, and so forth. My son and his wife got divorced a year later. But my beloved and I are still married after so many years. I am not boasting, of course. I am just flabbergasted by sumptuous weddings. Whence this piece, it goes without saying.