How a girl and her bride sealed their second-tiered legal union with a kiss and her checked Vans.

If someone told me three years ago that I would fall madly in love with a French girl, move to France and proceed to get PACS (or pacte civil de solidarité, the French version of civil unions), I would have told them that they were crazy. Further, I never thought I would find myself fighting that female socially constructed idea of the “most important day of your life.” So, when my girlfriend and I decided to take the plunge, I fought hard not to succumb to any preconceived fairy tale and ride the wave.

A bit of legal background: PACS is the French government’s way of allowing homosexuals and heterosexuals to unite legally.

The latest figures show that 75% of straight couples decide to get PACS rather than marry for one reason or another. It does bring many of the same rights and responsibilities of marriage, except for special adoption rights and the (unfortunate for me, an American) guarantee of residency for foreign partners.

I have to say that it took months to gather, sort and organize the necessary paperwork from both the U.S. and France, i.e., current notarized birth certificates, documentation of celibacy, proof of cohabitation, attestation of honour, drawn up PACS contracts and certifications of noninscription, which were then all to be translated in French and then to be stamped by the Tribunal in Paris. The ebb and flow of paperwork were excruciatingly endless. And, if that was not enough, as a foreign partner, I was required to secure a translator. This exhaustive process finally steered us toward locking in our appointment at the Marie of Bordeaux, which then tacked on an additional month of waiting.

Just as I could not foresee the difficulties with the French administration process, I could not predict what would happen next. The days and months leading up to this “most important day” was combed with frustration and fatigue. Yep, all of these unanticipated technicalities assisted me in dissolving any socially constructed notion of my “most important day.”

The morning before our afternoon appointment, we found ourselves scrambling around our house and stressing about what we should wear (apparently, we work best under pressure). Do we wear traditional white? Do we wear semi-formal attire? Do I attempt to put myself in a dress disregarding the fact that I haven’t worn a dress in approximately ten years?

After a morning of stress, I pulled the reins when I realized one simple and painful fact: because we are gay, we are forced to claim a secondary recognized tier of marriage.

I felt a certain sense of irony couched within this fact, which led me to channel my inner California self and disregard any notion of “traditional” attire. I put on a t-shirt, jean shorts and my black and grey-checkered Vans, grabbed my skateboard and said, “Let’s do this.”

When we arrived at the Marie of Bordeaux, we ran through all the scenarios in which we could be denied our legal union. I could feel my heart pulse with the fear of rejection. We walked through security, sat down in the small plastic chairs dotting the waiting room and anxiously stared at our watches. In almost simultaneous action, the translator arrived just as Officer Du Trubunal guided us into her tiny office.

We then sat in another pair of plastic chairs opposite the oversized black desk while the overpaid interpreter hovered over me to simply translate “sign here.” We wiped the nervous fear off our faces once we learned that our paperwork was in order. We sighed in relief once the officer officially stamped our mountain of documents.

Indeed, after approximately 15 minutes, we were PACS, and we left the concrete building to seal our second-tiered legal union with a kiss.

So, although I ditched the veil and opted for my checkered Vans, I am happy to know that my new wife accepts me for just that. Not only did I realize that my “big day” was far from any fantasy falsely created in my head, but instead, it was better. It was better because I never imagined finding someone who was so absolutely perfect for me.