Last night, my husband (!) Patrick and I were having Hawaiian martinis at Roy’s Waikoloa Bar & Grill (which is to Hawaii the way Chili’s is to Texas) when he asked me, Was it all worth it? Was all the stress and the arguing and the pressure worth it, to have a wedding instead of sneaking down to the courthouse or eloping to Las Vegas?

I had my answer ready, because I’d been thinking on it since we drove back to our hotel in a pick-up truck covered in dicks on Saturday night. My answer was: yes. All of the bullshit and the pressure and the stress was completely worth the experience of being married in front of all of our closest family and friends.

I felt strong and beautiful and happy and supported, in that pick-up truck covered in dicks. I felt blissed and blessed, in that pick-up truck covered in dicks. I felt like the exact thing that I’d wanted to happen had happened. The whole reason I’d consented to a capital-W Wedding in the first place was that I knew I needed other people to affirmatively answer the question, “Hey! Did you guys hear that?” about the fact that I’d met a man I loved and that I wanted to share my life with. I told myself I would do a Wedding because doing a Wedding would make my commitment to Patrick and our existence as “Patrick and Andrea” in the world more solidified and more real. And that shit actually happened, ya’ll.