Weddingbee Blog

After our fleeting, 15-minute-and-change ceremony, family portraits, and signing our marriage license, we were at last ready to commence our reception. We had planned for our entire wedding party to participate in the grand entrance, but after noting that all members were deep in earnest conversations, we decided there was no sense disrupting the flow to pull them away. The idea was thus canned on the spot, and our unflappable DJ, Mary Ann Ross, simply asked our guests to rise and give a hearty welcome to the newlyweds.

{Photo by Aruna B. Photography}

Habitually wallflowers, the experience of stepping into a room resounding with applause, whistles, and cheers specifically for you and your husband was both overwhelming and delightful. Slightly abashed, we wasted no time in transitioning straight into our first dance to the tune of Joshua Radin’s Only You.

Although we’re both music junkies, we never resonated with a specific song as a couple; we decided on this sweet ballad simply because we were deeply affected by the lyrics and could envision ourselves dancing to it. We signed up for private lessons at Dance Theatre Studio, and with the help of a couple University of Michigan ballroom team members learned choreography based on the American-style rumba.

These hours of instruction ended up having a dual purpose: teaching our feet where to go, and unexpectedly as an exercise in trust. My natural instinct was to lead because I had years of formal dance training under my belt, while Mr. Tartlet’s moves came mostly from house parties and dance clubs. I was subconsciously resistant to relinquish control, which resulted in smashed toes, misdirections, and general mayhem in the studio. After numerous failed attempts, Mr. Tartlet pulled back mid-choreography, looked me square in the eye and said: “Trust me. Let go. I can do this.” Startled and chastened, I did just that. And—whaddaya know—it worked.

My nerves were running high as we took our positions: up till then I had practiced in jeans, never in a delicately bustled lace dress. At one point my heels caught on the hem, and instead of the sultry ’slow-quick-quick’ characteristic of the dance style, I ended up doing a ’trip-shuffle-shuffle.’ Like a duck I remained calm on the surface, but underneath my feet were scrambling like hell underneath the length of my dress to recover. I surreptitiously leaned in and informed Mr. Tartlet: “I just stepped on your foot.” Accompanied by a muted groan of discomfort from having a 4-inch stiletto heel driven into his shoe, Mr. Tartlet managed to maintain a smile and whispered: “…I know.”

A few twirls, sways, and two minutes later, our first dance as husband and wife was complete.

The ordinarily reserved Mr. Tartlet surprised me with a romantic dip…

…much to the approval of the onlooking guests.

Armed with prior knowledge that a handful of people had to leave early, we arranged for the cake cutting ceremony to happen right after our first dance. I eagerly brandished the cake knife in my hand, and it dawned on me that despite all the practicing and planning that had occurred over the last few months, I had no idea which cake to cut, nor how to go about it. Mr. Tartlet, unruffled as ever, pointed to the nearest confectionery creation and matter-of-factly said “cut that one,” and away we went.

As the knife sliced through the silky buttercream frosting and eight glorious layers of cake, I felt my mouth start to water. We gingerly transported the cake onto the provided plate, my stomach gave an audible growl, and I realized that I was absolutely. ravenous. Confronted by a slice of heaven, in a moment of weakness I pulled one of these:

Although we had discussed the aversion my face has to cake, the twinkle in Mr. Tartlet’s eye and his crooked smile made it abundantly clear that he was considering taking the risk.

Catching on to the game of cat-and-mouse, some of our guests started to hoot and holler as we stared each other down.

He tried. Albeit not a full effort, as I was able to artfully dodge the weaving, cake-laden fork.

After wiping off my face and sharing a slightly cake-y kiss…

…I did what made complete sense at the time, which was to pick up the plate of cake to bring back with me to my seat.

{Photo by Brother Tartlet}

In my mind (who am I kidding, at this point my stomach reigned supreme), I figured health code would require the staff to throw that slice away, and I was determined to rescue it. Nonplussed, Mr. Tartlet voiced his concern that I would ruin my appetite for dinner, and in response I had a consummate moment of lady-like grace: I shoveled a huge bite into my mouth as I decidedly marched towards our sweetheart table.

Formalities out of the way, Mr. Tartlet gave an impromptu speech to thank our guests as I proudly looked on. Like his father, he’s a man of few words, and I think he surprised many of our guests with his heartfelt address intermingled with just a touch of humor.

The sun was just dipping below the horizon, and it was time to eat, drink, and be merry!

*Unless specified, all photos by Aruna B. Photography

• Sweet Beginnings: All The Small Things
• Sweet Beginnings: I Think I Wanna Marry You
• Sweet Beginnings: I Am The Luckiest
• Sweet Beginnings: The Way I Am
• Sweet Beginnings: One Step At A Time
• Sweet Beginnings: Papa-Paparazzi
• Sweet Beginnings: You Have Stolen My Heart
• Sweet Beginnings: Get Ready ’Cause Here I Come
• Sweet Beginnings: This Gift
• Sweet Beginnings: Good Mornin’ To You
• Sweet Beginnings: Welcome to Michigan
• Sweet Beginnings: Practice Makes Perfect
• Sweet Beginnings: Lets Get It Started!