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My husband and I got married two days in a row. By accident. I like to think that Jeff and I are pretty laid-back people. And while that now translates to exhausted to the point of comatose, it used to just mean relaxed and casual. So when it came time for us to get hitched, I threw an ivory wedding-ish dress in a carry-on, Jeff bought a tie, and we flew to Lake Tahoe to elope on the beach. Incidentally, this is still the only tie that Jeff owns, and wears to every function that requires a tie. Consequently every picture of him looks like it could be from our wedding album. Like I said, casual.

For those who don’t know, Lake Tahoe inhabits both California and Nevada. Nevada as in Las Vegas. Las Vegas as in 3 a.m. weddings at the High Roller Chapel with an Elvis officiant. So when it came to the nitty gritty details of our nuptials, I didn’t think there would be much red tape involved with a place where you could marry in between craps games, wearing glow-in-the-dark necklaces while eating a corndog. Turns out, there is.

The day we got married (the first time) was a lovely, unseasonably warm November afternoon. Which was fortuitous, since I was determined to wear my short, sleeveless dress on the beach whether or not said beach was covered in snow. (It wasn’t.) Since it was just the two of us—no guests or family to be concerned with—I spent the morning getting pampered in the spa. While Jeff spent it, unbeknownst to me, speeding wildly all over South Tahoe anxiously trying to track down the credit cards he had left at two separate restaurants for both lunch and dinner the previous day. I would soon discover in our married life that this was simply par for the course. And only losing two cards would actually be considered a good day.

As the sun was setting, the minister, Jeff, and I made our way out to a beautiful and secluded spot on the sandy shoreline. We were all smiles and giggles, until the minister turned to us.

“You brought your marriage license, right?”

We froze. “Marriage license? We…actually need one of those?”

But this is Nevada! What about all those funny little romantic comedies where Guy meets Girl, they drink too many high balls at the blackjack table, have a night of debauchery and wake up married with little gold dice rings??? Are we supposed to believe that during the montage of high jinks set to fun ’80s music, they stopped at the county courthouse to get a license? Apparently so.

Sensing my mounting panic and most likely a veteran of bridal meltdowns, she quickly assured us that it wasn’t a big deal. We could just swing by the courthouse tomorrow, get the license and she would drive by the hotel to sign off on everything. Crisis averted, we had a lovely, however illegal, ceremony and then posed for pictures…for the minister, who also happened to be our photographer. Casual.

The next day we drove to the courthouse to pick up the necessary paperwork. The clerk typed all our personal information into the computer, as we relayed it to her.
“And when is the date of your wedding?” Clickety clickety click.

“Oh, it was yesterday!” We laughed.

Clickety click—
She stopped typing abruptly and stared at us. “What do you mean, yesterday?”

“The day…before today?” We shrugged.

“You can’t do that. Who did that? What’s their name? That’s illegal. They can lose their license.”

Jeff and I stuttered incoherently for a moment, each hoping the other would come up with a plausible excuse to give this woman, who was now boring holes in our head with her Stare of Disapproval.

“Hmm, what’s that? Oh! Wedding! I thought you said…schmedding. Yes, the wedding is tomorrow. Of course, ha ha! It definitely did not already happen.” Okay, so neither of us is great under that kind of intense pressure and scrutiny. Finally, she conceded to finish the paperwork as I described in great detail the wedding we would most certainly be having the following day, complete with hundreds of guests, a three-tiered cake, a big band, a horse-drawn carriage, doves, etc. Then we hurried out of there before she could change her mind.

Later that afternoon, I was taking a nap when we got a call from the front desk that the minister was there to see us. Jeff grabbed the license and headed down to the lobby. A few moments later, the phone rang. “She needs to see both of us.” “Why?” I asked groggily. “I don’t know. You have to sign something I think. Just have to come down here.” Annoyed, I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and trudged down to the lobby.

I found them at the concierge desk. “Okay so do you Jeff take Sarah to be your…” She began.

“Wait! What? We have to do it again? I’m in a sweatshirt! We’re in the lobby!”

“Just real quick,” she promised and then began to rattle off the vows like an auctioneer selling an antique lamp on the auction block. The front desk clerks served as our witnesses, as well as our only guests, and clapped and whistled loudly during the kiss—to the confusion of all the people checking in around us. “Is this the first wedding you’ve had at your desk?” Jeff asked. (It was.)

So now, our anniversary is November sixth. And seventh. That means, should Jeff happen to forget the first one, which let’s be honest, you don’t have to get married in Vegas for those odds, he can always throw on that old, trusty tie the next day, and pretend he had dinner reservations the whole time. Like I said, casual.

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