highlight of an omaha wedding

It was a lovely wedding. Really, it was.

The seven bridesmaids looked regal and statuesque in their light-pink, floor-length, strapless silk gowns, gathered and secured at the hip with a sparkly brooch. They could gone to the Oscars in those gowns.

The bride (whom we had not met until that day) was even more stunning, her face lit at every moment by a big smile, blonde ringlets framing her face.

The ceremony was a true high Mass. A gorgeous choir sang the eucharistic prayers in Latin. Mozart, Britten and Shubert were also on the program. Two priests took part, including a monsignor, and Communion was included, even though the non-Catholic groom and many in his family were unable to take it.

At our dinner table later at the country club, a huge, pink-themed flower arrangement floated, umbrella-like, three or four feet over our heads, elevated by a slim, narrow post of some kind. Other tables around us had roses submerged in big fishbowls of water.

Our dinner companions were coworkers of the groom who dished about how much money he'd spent on his bride's 2-carat engagement ring and laughed with special knowing at some of the toasts. The one nearest us, a corporate physical therapist, engaged us in interesting conversation about everything from the joys of parenthood to Stephen's bothersome Achilles tendon. He was nice, funny and delightful.

So, by all accounts, it was a perfectly lovely wedding - a day the bride and groom certainly will look back on and proclaim a success. It was big, formal, pink and expensive - not really our style, but it wasn't our day, after all. If weddings reflect the personalities of the couple entering into marriage that day, the bride and groom - she a doctor and he an engineer - surely must envision a comfortable, traditional, upstanding life ahead of them.

But soon after we'd finished eating dinner - after the tastefully worded toasts and the perfectly moist and delicious cake - I was seized by a desire that has never before overcome me at a wedding: At 8:30 p.m., I wanted nothing more than to be back in our bed-and-breakfast, out of my high-heeled shoes, tucked into the extra bed on the three-season porch attached to our room, reading a good book.

I couldn't wipe the idea from my mind long enough even to wait for the first dance, much less hit the dance floor myself. (And I love dancing at weddings.) I whispered my idea to Stephen, and he whispered back, "That does sound good. We can leave whenever you want." So we worked our way to the front of the room, where everyone we knew was seated, still waiting for the fun, unbuttoned, hair-down part of the evening to begin. We said our goodbyes and hurried out to the car.

Within 40 minutes, we were ensconced blissfully in that porch bed, the chill of the early spring night on our noses but the rest of our bodies toasty under big blankets. Stephen read some class work, and I chose a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary from the abundant selection of paperbacks on our bookshelf. We read until we were sleepy, and then we turned out the light and fell asleep, awakened by the sunlight streaming through the windows the next morning.

Driving home yesterday, we agreed: That night on the porch was the highlight of our trip to Omaha.