Next month will make two years that I’ve lived in Uzbekistan. In the course of my work here on immigrant and “green card lottery” cases, I’ve looked at literally hundreds of Uzbek wedding photos, submitted to bolster the bona fides of a relationship. I’ve seen the dresses, the festive and colorful tables, and the giant plates of plov. But literally every Uzbek I know is already married. In fact, my Uzbek colleagues who are the same age as I am have children who are now preparing for university. That is probably why I’ve never actually received an invitation to an Uzbek wedding. But a couple of weeks ago, one of my colleagues A., walked into my office and asked me what I was doing on April 14.
Seven years and nine months ago tonight, I went on my first date with a guy who I didn’t really know, but from whom I soon would become inseparable. And then one year ago today, I donned an enormous dress. I walked down the aisle of Evangelisch-Lutherische St. Matthäus-Kirche in San Francisco, California, and pledged to love and cherish him until death us do part.