Countdown to matrimony

It's a big week for Flo and I. We're to strap on our respective ball-and-chains on Saturday. We're both thrilled, of course, but it's also a little nervous-making.

This morning, after stopping off at the post office to get a money order -- that's the only form of payment accepted -- we went down to One Centre Street to get our marriage license. We liked the no-nonsense, seen-it-all, borderline-curmudgeonly woman who presented us the application. She came off as having been there and done that many times over, and of course, she has -- how many times has she delivered those by-rote instructions, one wonders. A thousand? A million?

Probably closer to the latter -- at a rate of, say, twenty times an hour, eight hours a day, five days a week and fifty weeks a year, she's recited the instructions 800,000 times if she's worked there twenty years, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit if she's been there longer than that. She was definitely a grizzled veteran.

I asked her if she was ever tempted to talk anyone down from their nuptial ledge ("Honey, you're settling," was the line I assigned her in my hypothetical example. "You could do so much better.") She harrumphed, saying, "Yeah, right. And get sued?"

But we saw a slyly softer side of her as she interacted with her colleagues and co-workers. She's definitely hardboiled on the outside, but with a gooey center. And somehow a truly quintessential New Yorker. She made our morning.

The application process went quickly, and in relatively short order, we were fully licensed to tie the knot. So now it's just a matter of counting down the minutes, hours and days until Saturday afternoon. I've informed Flo that she has until midnight on Friday to come to her senses. After that, I won't accept any retractions of her proposal of some months back.

I was feeling a little giddy and romantic after securing the license, and it struck me as a good idea for us to walk out and take in the glorious view of Manhattan from the walkway beneath the westernmost tower of the Brooklyn Bridge. It proved to be the right move, a celebratory stroll that felt just right. We both enjoyed the walk on this sunny, crisp December morning, and the vista that spread before us was inspiring.

So the countdown is on. At some point a few minutes after the hour of one o'clock on Saturday afternoon, I'll officially be Mr. Flo -- and damned proud of it.