Part I.  Why We Held Our Wedding On Escarpment Weekend

Aaron and I decided to get married in June.  To clear up any potential misconceptions about rose petals and moonlight, Aaron’s proposal had the phrase tax implications in it.  And in keeping with the pragmatism theme, I suggested we just go down to the DC court house.  To be ultra-efficient, we could do it on the day of his birthday, June 15th.  Aaron finds celebrations onerous, particularly on his birthday, and that way we could spend the rest of our lives celebrating our anniversary instead.  Kill two birds with one stone.  Aaron loves killing birds!  But instead of declaring Yes, let’s do it, Aaron equivocated Let me think about it. I’m afraid Aaron discovered the stiff price to pay for deliberation.

By the time I got home that night after dinner with my parents, Aaron’s window had passed.  If you want to get married at a court house, it turns out you have to do it before the parents find out.

But at least I came up with a sensible plan.  Okay, maybe not everyone agrees that combining your wedding with a famously tough trail race the same weekend is sensible.  But there was a lot to be said for holding the wedding in conjunction with the Escarpment Trail Run (ETR) at the end of July.  Being six weeks away, we had enough time to plan something small and simple at the house of a friend or family member, but no so much time that it could snowball into something elaborate (once Wechslers get planning, it doesn’t stop).  Furthermore, Joe had already rented out a big house in the Catskills for all the trail runners, and had planned a beautiful mountain run for Saturday.

And ETR has a special place in my heart as the birthplace of my trail racing career.  It was my first trail race ever, in July of 2006.  I have a particular fondness for that twenty-five year old version of myself: fearless, stupid, up for anything.  My Penn State running buddy Ken Davis had been trying unsuccessfully for a decade to get some of the Nittany Valley road running crew to join him on his crazy mountain race in New York.  Everyone thought Ken was nuts.

But I was twenty-five, and I was just getting unleashed on the world.  That year, I’d moved to State College, begun a PhD in Biology, run my first Boston Marathon, and somehow convinced everyone to do the Beer Mile.  If there was a new crazy adventure, I was IN.

My friends pointed out that I had no experience with mountain endurance events.  One concerned friend knew a thing or two about summer hydration from his single-speed mountain bike races, and dropped off a Camelback, some Cytokine drink mix, and some gels, and helped me get a proper fit, wishing me luck.  Another friend didn’t know anything about trail racing, but decided last-minute that he should really come along just to make sure I didn’t kill myself.

I’m not sure which is crazier: (a) that I carried no water during the race, (b) that the only reason I wore trail shoes was because RD Dick Vincent told me someone had actually died in the race after slipping off a ledge.

Somehow I had decided to scrap the Camelback.  It was only 18 miles and there were aid stations.  I figured I might get hungry, though, and as a precaution I started the race with a Clif Bar clenched in my hand.  How very prudent of me!

By mid-race my mouth didn’t even have enough saliva to eat the Clif Bar.  For the last 4-5 miles I was so extremely dehydrated that I started falling for no reason, as vividly captured by my friend’s video footage of my classic wipe-out (one of many….).

I survived the race, and even finished first female in just under 4 hours.  I had dirt in my teeth and blood all over.  My body was in such shock I actually needed a blanket.

Still, I loved the trail racing experience.  Ten years later, I can still remember the sense of discovery as the race unfolded.  Learning for the first time that it was acceptable to walk the climbs.  Being wide-eyed at the overlooks.  Storming down the hills with reckless abandon.  And feeling so alone on the trail that I actually decided to just pee straight through my shorts while running instead of stopping to take a squat (my bottom was soaked from sweat anyway, I reasoned).

Somehow, I’ve never been able to return to ETR, but not for lack of effort.  Some years I couldn’t run because of injuries; other years I had travel.  Last year I ran Manitou’s Revenge, which includes sections of the Escarpment trail, but couldn’t run ETR because I had a work conflict.  But I promised to return in 2016 to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of my first trail race.

I should mention there were other compelling reasons to hold the wedding in conjunction with ETR.  I had my cousin Sarah and her exquisite taste (and no-nonsense efficiency) to help with arrangements on the ground (Sarah’s family and my uncle Jon live in Rhinebeck, NY, a quaint town just across the Hudson from the Catskills).  And we had a long-time family friend, Jean Briggs, who had a beautiful wooded property on a lake just outside of Rhinebeck, where I had been to many tented birthday celebrations as a kid.  Jean had passed away just a few months earlier, but her children hadn’t put the house on the market yet.  They thought that having one last bash there would be a great curtain call.

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Part II.  It’s Not a Real Wedding Unless it Almost Doesn’t Happen 

Aaron and I arrived at the Rhinebeck Town Clerk’s office to obtain our marriage license 15 minutes before closing time.

Clerk: Okay, I’ll need some ID, a driver’s license.

Marthon: (fumbling with wallets) Check.

Clerk: And, as proof of age, a birth certificate.

Marthon: (silence)

The bad part is not the major f%*( up.  The bad part is when you realize you have to tell your parents.  And they are going to say all the Parent Things like They might be smart, but they still can’t get their life together.  And Didn’t someone tell you what documents you needed to bring? as if the Rhinebeck Town Clerk was someone we’d been regularly FaceTiming with.

But we needed their help.  To make a long story short, Aaron and I obtained our birth certificates, with a little help from our friends.  Aaron’s parents’ neighbor (Wedding Hero I) was able to locate his birth certificate in his parent’s apartment in Rosslyn.  And I have a major debt to Stephen (Wedding Hero II), an NIH intern who was taking care of our cat Leda for the weekend,  who found mine in a desk drawer.  I think Aaron and I set a record for fist-bumps.

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Part III.  The Rhinecliff Hotel is a Big Fat Liar, but it Works Out for the Best Anyway

Next drama: the Rhinecliff Hotel, where the Schwartzbards were hosting the Friday night dinner, did not have a liquor license for hard alcohol, just beer and wine.  We knew this wasn’t a *real* drama.  No one was going to throw their wine and demand bourbon.  But it was Aaron’s father’s sole stipulation that the venue have an open bar option, and frustrating to be misled.

To make up for the mishap, the Rhineclif Hotel upgraded us to a fancy room with a better view of the Hudson River and a beautiful balcony.  With wine, beer, prosecco, and a beautiful sunset to boot, no one was missing their gin.  Well, maybe my father.

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Part IV.  Hiking Over Hair, Sandwich Over Makeup

My mother’s single request for the wedding was that I don’t wear running shorts or high school track pants.  I think this brings up an important lesson: if you really want to knock the socks off your guests at your wedding, spend the decades prior priming them to have very low expectations.  Hair drier?  Forget about it.  Make up?  Please.  So when you step out at your rehearsal dinner with blown out hair, people will notice.  One of our friends literally did not recognize me.  Girls who are always put together probably have to spend all day grooming to nudge their bar a little higher.

Without all that grooming to do, I spent the morning of my wedding hanging out with friends.  Aaron and I were staying in a big house with a dozen other trail runners.  Saturday morning we all went out for a monster brunch and then set off into the Catskills for a 9 mile hike organized by Joe.  A pack of my best friends from childhood came along (although some of them didn’t quite know what they were in for).

I will always remember the glorious hike with all my best friends: picking four-leaf clovers, spotting birds and mushrooms, taking in the views, munching on snacks, seeing gorgeous waterfalls, and, of course, getting lost.

Aaron and I actually had to run the last couple miles so that I wouldn’t completely miss my 3pm hair appointment.  I ended up being 20 minutes late, but weighing hiking with friends versus hair, I absolutely made the right decision.  The hair stylist rocked (although she admitted she’d never done a bride before).  We speed-did my hair in 40 minutes.

The only problem was that I didn’t have any time for lunch.  Aaron kindly plopped a sandwich in my lap, but it was not possible to eat a sandwich without it getting completely doused in hair spray (I believe the stylist was aiming for my head and not my face, but in fairness she was a bit rushed).  Keith and Tracy magically showed up at the hair salon like fairy godmothers with paper towels to spare the sandwich from the bombardment of toxic hair spray.

I arrived at the wedding about a half hour before the guests were set to arrive.  I was clean, but still in a t-shirt and shorts.  The moms were already trying to corral people for family photos.  With the clock winding down, it came down to sandwich versus make-up.  Sandwich 1 – Make-up 0.

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Part V.  Bug Hunt is the #1 Wedding Highlight

Despite early efforts to skirt most wedding traditions (toasts, white dresses, vows, bouquets, bridesmaids, flower girls), in the end I pretty much went along with much of the wedding rubric.  I even got a long white dress, although ordered from Zappos and technically not a wedding dress.  But I did get my bug hunt.

You know how you spend the first quarter or so of your life excited about getting older?  Getting to drive a car, go off to college, go to fancy parties and travel the world?  And then gradually the allure starts to fade.  You decide high-heeled shoes stink.  And cocktail parties are boring.

For my 28th birthday, I decided I was done with bars.  Hence the birth of Lobsterfest.  We would do Run for the Birds, play tennis, march around the creek in Shepherdstown, and, resurrecting an old Martha birthday tradition from when I was little, we’d have a bug hunt.

A bug hunt is pretty self-explanatory.  You get a jar, and you try to find bugs.  ‘Bugs’ is a fairly loose term.  Worms are included.  One year a newt was allowed.  There is one important rule: do not kill your bug.  And you must (at least loosely) identify your bug.  Prizes go to (a) Biggest Bug, (b) Best Bug, and (c) Most Bugs.

In the days leading up to the wedding, I was surprised to discover that my family didn’t seem to understand I was dead serious about the bug hunt.  The day before heading up to New York:

Me:  You’re bringing plenty of jars for the bug hunt, right?

Mom: Huh?  You’re not seriously having a bug hunt at the wedding.

Me:  Mom, we’ve been planning this all along.

Mom:  Well I don’t have many jars.

Me:  Whatever. Tupperware.  Plastic containers will do.

Mom: How about tennis ball cans?

Me:  Perfect.

On the day of the wedding, it was raining too hard during the cocktail hour to do the bug hunt before dinner, as planned.  But after dinner the rain let up, and there was a brief window before it got too dark.

 Me:  Fred, the rain has let up.  We have to do the bug hunt soon before it gets too dark.

Fred: Bug hunt, eh?  And what are said categories for the bug hunt?

Me: Biggest Bug, Best Bug, and Most Bugs.

Fred:  What’s the criteria for best bug?

Me:  I’m judge.  Color.  Rareness.  Coolness.  Whatever.

Fred:  And there are rules?

Me:  Bugs must live.  Bugs must be identified.

Fred:  Sure.

Me:  Okay, you’re the Grand Master of the Bug Hunt.  Let’s get this going!

Fred kind of shrugged and walked away.  I furrowed my brow  I turned to my friends sitting at the table, folded my hands in front of me, straightened my back, and asked indignantly, ‘Did he just say No to the bride?’

Realizing I was on my own, I kicked into fierce marmot mode.  Under the table I found the paper bag with the collection of miscellaneous jars, tennis ball cans, and plastic food containers my mother had amassed.  I passed them out to each of the tables, explaining their purpose.  When I got to Fred’s table, he accepted that he wasn’t getting out this Grand Master thing.  I added one more amendment: this year, amphibians and reptiles would be permitted.

I realized this was going to be an exceptional bug hunt as soon as I saw Deb on her knees scooping a frog directly from the pond water with her bare hands.  (As a molecular ecologist who studies newts, Deb had a distinct advantage.)  But other wedding guests also discovered that the rain had brought the frogs up onto the grass.  It became a race of man against beast, as hands and jars darted to intercept the slippery frogs as they mad-dashed back towards the pond.

The bug hunt was an amphibian bonanza.  Fred and Summer caught a frog.  Daniel caught a frog.  Deb caught two frogs.  Somehow even Uncle Jon ended up with a frog.  Summer’s enormous frog won for Biggest Bug.  Best Bug went to a huge carnivorous water beetle extracted from the pond.  Deb’s two frogs won Most Bugs based on mass, and I think Cecile and Bernard’s large ant colony won for Most Bugs based on quantity.  The Lapointe boys cleverly tried to convince me that their canister of pond water contained millions of micro-organisms, but I’m afraid one of the rules is that you have to identify the bugs.  In the end, all participants got prizes, which consisted of a scoop of the personalized M&M’s Michele had given us, complete with my and Aaron’s faces printed on the shells.

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Part VI.  Sean’s Wobble is the Wedding Highlight Runner-Up

A bride only gets so many you-have-to-do-what-the-bride-asks-on-her-wedding-day cards.  I’d already cashed in most of them for the bug hunt.  But Sean had already been well briefed that he was expected to learn how to dance the Wobble, along with Sarah, Rosie, Cecily, and myself.  I had even sent him YouTube instructional videos.  The morning of the wedding, Sean was still trying to get out of it.  Excuse #1: he had never danced at any wedding before in his life.  Excuse #2: his March knee surgery.  But I’m afraid it’s an uphill battle to claim injury when the bride is on to the fact that Sean had spent the previous month climbing 14,000 ft mountains in Colorado.

But I have to give Sean credit for exceeding all expectations on the dance floor, Wobble++.  And a shout out to Scott, who emerged as our Wobble Grand Master.  It turns out that Rosie, who typically resides in the I-refuse-to-dance camp, also has some killer Taylor Swift moves when sufficiently hydrated.

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Part VII.  Muffing Wedding Traditions

I have a distaste for staged events.  I shrivel inside at the idea of a bride and groom’s first dance.  Aaron and I agreed to have a ceremony (as brief as possible), and to break the glass.  Stomping on the glass actually sounded like fun, and I was disappointed to learn it was the groom’s job.  But we nixed a host of other wedding traditions: the bride carrying and tossing a bouquet, smooshing cake in each other faces, bridesmaids and groomsmen, and any kind of bride-groom, groom-mother, or father-bride dances.  I relented on having flower girls at the behest of my nieces Summer and Savannah.  I also conceded that my father could give a time-limited toast.

I had hoped that I would be able to skirt the tradition of the bride and groom kissing and the end of the ceremony.  One of the strategies I entertained was asking Judge Sanchez to finish the ceremony with a rousing You may now fist-bump the bride.  But I figured that in all the commotion and excitement, Aaron and I would easily slip out before anyone noticed.

I was wrong.  Kiss, kiss, kiss, they chanted.  I had entered my photo op nightmare.  I flashed Aaron a deer-in-the-headlights look.  I was squirmy, and we mostly got each other’s noses.  Maybe he managed to get the side of my mouth.  It wasn’t as traumatic as I’d feared.  Fortunately no one made us try a re-do.

The cake was another example of the bride messing up the photo op.  When Aaron and I were told to cut the cake, we took it literally, and started doling out slices.  It turned out the cake thing was just for show.  We weren’t actually supposed to cut pieces for our guests.  With a little effort, I managed to convince the caterers just to cut up the cake where it was, scaffolds and all.  Weddings are silly!

Fortunately, any cake photo op snafus were forgotten as soon as the guests had their first bite of its moist and varied layers.  The cake design was another one of the bride’s wild and crazy ideas.  At one point my mom had informed me that we’re going to have a chocolate cake, since that’s what the girls preferred (‘the girls’ being my adorable nieces Summer and Savannah).  I had to play my bride card: one layer almond, one layer lemon, one layer pistachio.  There was a quizzical response.  No one had ever heard of such a cake.  In fact, Terese, our cake maker, had never even made a pistachio cake before.  I, myself, struggled to explain where my cake vision came from.  It was partially inspired by my friend Sarah’s triple-layered wedding cake, but the only layer in common was almond.  But somehow it worked.  Go figure.

To cover the girls’ chocolate requirement, Aaron’s baker extraordinaire friend Jen made very popular cupcakes and ‘cookie within a cookie’ concoctions.

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Part VIII.  Final Remarks

Aaron and I were astonished by how many people actually came to this wedding, given the six-week notice.  Of course, the short notice meant that some of our important friends and family couldn’t make it, and I hope the pictures and descriptions here help them feel like they were a part of the experience.  In particular, my cousin Claire, who has always been the closest thing I have to a sister, couldn’t make it from Africa, where she and her husband Josh recently moved to from Germany.  My oldest running friend (going back in time and forward in age) and long-time frustrated fashion consultant Tom also couldn’t make it, an absence that was particularly conspicuous on the dance floor.  But I hope he at least saw all the dresses.

We tried to keep our wedding party very small, which didn’t permit us to invite every one of our friends and family.  But I particularly regret that we didn’t invite Aaron’s ActivTrax boss Gary.  It wasn’t my call. But Aaron and Gary go way back, and sometimes you have to pull your Bride Authority card.  My dear friends Alice and Isabella from Padova, Italy, also could not make the wedding on such short notice, but I wore the earrings they gave me so they could at least be there in spirit.  It was also nice that the wedding ring Aaron gave me was his maternal grandmother’s, another person whose absence was felt (she passed before I had a chance to meet her.)  And the spirits of Jean and Jim, with whom I had spent so much time  at this summer house, coursed through the entire event.  I bet Jean would have rocked the Wobble.

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Acknowledgements