The day you’ve been waiting for has finally arrived. You’ve been counting down the years, the months, the minutes, and now the seconds. Ripped out of secretly collected and stolen magazines from dentists’ and doctors’ office waiting rooms from the past three decades, you’ve been gowned in Monique Lhuillier, holding a delicate bouquet of white roses, standing alone at the edge of the vineyard, blocked from view from your closest friends and family, who répondez s'il vous plaît’d on heavy stock paper, laced with satin silver ribbon and stenciled with roses, choosing between main dishes of Grilled Chicken Americana, Roasted Prime Rib, or Eggplant Parmigiana.

As the Bridal Chorus begins and your countdown reaches zero, you turn the corner as the last remaining member of the procession down the aisle. A procession that was rehearsed one too many times the evening prior, with bridesmaids in the same satin silver as those invitation ribbons.

The day you’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.

The moment is finally here.

The groom isn’t.