I paid for my own wedding.
It was a big bash on the bonny banks of Loch Lomond in a five-star country house hotel with salmon and roast lamb for dinner, an 18-piece marching pipe band, several out-of-country guests and several more bottles of French wine.
It was truly the best day of my life.
I never expected my parents to pay for my wedding. You get to a certain age and it really isn’t appropriate. Besides, it was the height of the dot com boom and I was earning obscene amounts of money (don't get the wrong picture, a paper bag could have landed a high paying marketing job in those days.)
I planned the event. The bills came to me. I paid them out of my accounts.
We never talked about who was going to pay for what. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, right?
I should have seen a pattern emerging. Did I tell you my hubby is Scottish?
When we were engaged, my mother presented me with a family diamond ring, which my grandmother had purchased on a trip to Amsterdam in the 60s. My mother had saved it for me, and said I could reset it to whatever I wanted.
When I saw it, I could clearly remember the white gold ring with the simple four diamond setting on my grandmother’s third finger. I decided it was perfect.
My Glaswgian fiancé could not believe his luck.
I recently pointed out to my now hubby that I paid for our wedding.
You know what he said?
"You knew I was Scottish when you married me."
This post first appeared a few years ago, but as I recently visitied the bony banks of Lock Lomond, I decided to publish again.
Photo credit: giuliomariale
