I had been seeing this girl, Shelby, for about a month when I got married. To someone else.

The summer after graduating college sank me into a deep depression. Most of my friends moved out of state, and my family lived in Brazil, which left me the loneliest I had ever been. I lived alone during those months due to a sudden falling out with a previous roommate, and nothing could save me from the saddening solitude that filled my days in my kitchenless studio. On top of that, I could not get a single job interview for a position in my field, despite having countless unpaid internships in my resumé, a degree from a top university, and thousands of dollars in debt. After that pathetic Los Angeles summer ended, as if things could not get worse, I lost my health insurance.

I had spent the last four years comfortably covered by my university’s student insurance. Thrown into the real world with no job, no insurance, chronic health problems, and a general lack of understanding of the US healthcare system, I found myself in a scary situation. That’s when one of my best friends, Kina, offered a helping hand in marriage.

Kina lived in the Midwest, but we met during freshman year of college through the unexpected blessing of random roommate assignments. We quickly bonded over our shared love of free food, Bob’s Burgers reruns, and our mutual agreement regarding pantslessness in the home. Years later, she landed a steady job with benefits all the way in Chicago, and being her legally wedded wife (or “wofe”, as we refer to each other) would mean I could be her plus one for health insurance. She and another friend of ours, Antonio, had already booked a trip to L.A. to visit me and our other friend, Sid, so we had about a month to plan the wedding.

In that time, I matched on Tinder with Shelby, and we quickly and chaotically became girlfriends. As the wedding weekend approached, I remember having a conversation with my then-girlfriend that went something like this:

            Her: Hey, what are you doing this weekend?

            Me: My friends will be visiting!

            Her: That’s awesome, what are y’all doing?

            Me: Getting married!

            Her: What?

            Me: Let me explain…

            And so, explain I did. Despite my assurance that this was not a romantic wedding, but a need-based one and that the primary motivation for the matrimony hinged on the “in sickness and in health” bit, I always felt some insecurity from Shelby, even as she joked about being the mistress. Kina and I are both queer, but we have never dated or shared any romance, so while I could understand a tad of insecurity or even jealousy coming from my partner, there was no reason for it. Our deep platonic love (or “wofeship”, as we call it) should not feel like a threat to our romantic partners, even if said love was to be government official.

A few days later, Antonio and Kina arrived at LAX late at night, and we all woke up around 6 A.M. to secure our spots at the courthouse. Once we arrived, security stopped Antonio for possession of a sharp, metallic object. He then proceeded to hide his multitool device in the bushes, a few steps from the entrance. We waited in line, the fiancés wearing pink and holding tightly to all the required documents. When our turn came, we got all the papers to sign but needed someone—usually a religious figure—to officiate the ceremony. The courthouse recommended a list of nearby churches, but there was no one available for months, and Kina was only in town for the weekend.

As it turns out, my “wofe” and I are both ordained ministers—not that we know anything about theology, but we got ordained online about a year prior, to have a fun fact to surprise our friends with. As we both knew, getting ordained online is ridiculously easy, so we showed Antonio the ropes and he got ordained on the steps of the Beverly Hills Courthouse, right by the hidden pocket knife, as we waited for Sid, who arrived shortly after, wearing a stylish leather suit in the L.A. heat. We all signed our names on the dotted lines—Sid as the witness—and at that moment the four of us were bound together in the eyes of the law, united through friendship and official paperwork.

We had lunch at Roscoe’s, and the four of us celebrated with delicious chicken and waffles. Then, we headed to my new shared-by-nine-tenants house, took cute pictures in my backyard, and shared a bottle of Trader Joe’s rosé. The next day, we all honeymooned at Universal Studios, going on all the rides and splitting frozen Butterbeer, as newlywed pals often do. We sent the forms in the mail and recycled the rough copy after rolling some devil’s lettuce on it—a move that later bit us in the butt, when we needed the information from the draft and had to wait until the finalized certificates came in the mail.

I suppose I am not being completely honest when I say that the sole purpose of the wedding was health insurance. Because the truth is, I love Kina. Not romantically or sexually, but goddammit, I love her, and I think that friendship deserves to be celebrated!

Every movie has a romantic subplot, Valentine’s Day is a million-dollar holiday, and we get nagged by our families to find a suitable lover. But what about Palentine’s Day? Why doesn’t our family ask us whether we have fulfilling, supportive friendships? If marriage is about romantic love, where is the pompous ceremony to celebrate our deepest friendships? Why don’t we celebrate anniversaries for our friends? I want to hold a boombox and play a dramatic song outside my best friends’ windows and run through crowded airport terminals for them, too.

Ironically, we got the finalized marriage certificate in the mail after missing the yearly deadline to add me to her insurance. Fortunately, my barely livable wage meant I was eligible to enroll in Medi-Cal, and while I did not understand how it worked, I knew that I had some sort of coverage to get me by. But the wedding was not for naught. While it did not fulfill its initial purpose, it proved to be a delightful celebration of queer adult friendships and a much-needed light in the bleak hopelessness of my post-graduate year.

Over four years after the event, I am now engaged to somebody else–- Corey, who I didn’t even know when all this happened, but who has already met Kina and gotten her seal of approval. In that time, I have gained some ground-level understanding of health insurance—long story short, healthcare companies make a lot of money, so try not to get sick in this country.

I’ve always known that if we ever got divorced,—only for the purpose of either one of us wishing to marry someone else—Kina and I would certainly have the most peaceful divorce in history, worthy of shared rosé and delicious waffles. If we never got divorced, then I would simply be glad that she could visit me on my deathbed—which hopefully won’t come for several decades, provided I am always well-insured.