February in Iowa isn’t exactly a time when we are overrun with tourists. That said, the month does have its perks, at least for some of us.
The second of February is Groundhog Day. More importantly, it’s the day Bing and I chose to be married. June brides are vastly overrated, and February brides are not. Overrated, that is. Mainly because there are so few of us.
We chose Feb. 2 not because we had a thing for groundhogs (I’m not sure what exactly a groundhog is, but he must be important to have a day named after him), but because it was between semesters of Bing’s senior year in law school.
I airily left all the planning up to my poor mother in Iowa while I flitted around Chicago enjoying the city life. It never occurred to me that she might worry about snowstorms stranding the wedding party in Chicago and the other guests being mired in an Iowa blizzard. I was more concerned about what blonde rinse would look the most ravishing with my wedding gown and what gift I should give my groom. The rinse I settled on was somewhat of a disaster, turning my hair Lucille Ball pink. I have no idea what gift I gave Bing. He gave me a pearl drop necklace, which was – and is – lovely.
I suppose I might have given him a book, perhaps another Winnie the Pooh book to go with the one I gave him for Christmas several years before. Whatever it was, I’m sure he loved it. He was always a good sport.
That day in 1963 dawned sunny and bright, no snowstorms on the horizon and all went well. My mother’s second biggest worry was that the ancient furnace in our ancient house would choose that time to expire, leaving all of us with icicles hanging from our elbows. Didn’t happen and, in fact, that ancient furnace chugged on for years afterward until Bing and I finally had it replaced in 2004 when we moved into my parents’ house.
There’s probably something of a moral here, having to do with worries about things that never happen. Like what if someday we have children with a penchant for knocking the car’s front bumper into the back seat. Or worrying about serving moldy chili to an unsuspecting husband who was sure he was nearly killed. Or lighting a fire in the fireplace without opening the damper, thereby setting off every smoke alarm in a three block radius.
Oh wait – those are worries we never had ahead of time – they just happened. If we’d worried about them ahead of time, they probably wouldn’t have happened.
So there you have it, faithful readers. The secret of how to have no worries.