April 13, 2011
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Wednesday Morning Wedding Blues
photo by Frank Horvat“Do me a favour: If you ever get married, elope.” These wise words were spoken to me by my father when I was still in elementary school. I’m fairly confident he was kidding (in that he was totally serious but wouldn’t force the issue if it wasn’t what I wanted) but I couldn’t agree more.
The wedding I always dreamed of consisted of a day dress and a bunch of flowers in a government office, the reception, a cocktail in a hotel bar. Maybe there would be dancing later if we could find somewhere to go. Family was optional; whoever could make it on short notice was welcome (since I planned not to make any plans). It would be chic, elegant, quick. I would look back on that day and remember that once, just once, I had done something beautiful and impulsive. It’s the way I always wanted to be – to see myself. I hate that I’m so cautious. Finally, this thing that tied me to another would be the thing that made me free.
Or not.
I love weddings – I really do. I think they are optimistic and lovely and when I get an invitation I always go (food notwithstanding). But my attraction to them is strictly arm’s length. The performance involved the opposite of what I find romantic. I’ve seen too many people at their wit’s end with preparation, too many people at the end of their “special day” exhausted. The spectacle that runs them ragged is for their family and friends. Years later, all that’s left are some pictures (is that really what Aunt Celia was wearing?) an abiding aversion to Chicken Cordon Bleu and a story about the toast where someone accidentally used a curse word. I love my family and my friends, but I don’t give a shit if they want chicken or fish. I’ll buy them dinner some other time.
Now we come to our secondary problem. I have some pretty serious performance anxiety. It used to be stage fright, but over the years it’s drifted into the realm of phobia. Now I would deign to call it crippling. I remember a few months ago, I went to a lecture about something or other. There were about 25 attendees (at the outside) and I knew about half of them. We were sitting around a table, boardroom style. It was absolutely friendly and casual. At some point during the lecture, I had a question I thought I might ask during the discussion period after the talk. But the moment the thought crossed my mind, the panic crept in. Within a matter of five minutes, my hands were shaking and sweating, my blood sugar levels were on the floor. Even though I was sitting down I was terrified I would pass out.
It’s what happens any time I have to do anything in front of other people. Especially if I have too much time to think about it beforehand.
So now it turns out that the one who has all kinds of expectation about a “wedding” isn’t me. (You know, boys and their weddings.) And he’s adamant he wants something, some sort of event. I love him and really, if it was just about preference I’d give in immediately. But this is my wedding, too, and my memory, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to look back and remember it as the day I blacked out or threw up in front of the people I love.
I just want to feel competent and beautiful and happy. But I can’t seem to explain that properly and we just end up getting into some huge fight.
g.
Comments (2)
There has always been a part of me that’s been pro-eloping. It just seems like so much less fuss–and equally (if not more) romantic than a regular wedding, in its own way. I’m sorry this has been hard to work out.
h.
Oh g. you make me smile! The God’s honest truth is that I started my wedding planning by telling my mother that I did not want anything fancy or over the top. It was going to be me in a simple but elegant knee skimming dress with a few family members and friends to witness. After all—I was going to have to pay for it myself—and I was making what could only be described as shit pay with my lovely life partner making even worse shit pay. I was not interested in the purchase of Cordon Bleu or table mints in special monogrammed bags. That was when my practical, mostly emotionless and efficient mother burst into tears. She had eloped two months after her 18th birthday and apparently had lots of baggage around it that I was unaware of. (If I had been her mother, I also would have been against the idea of her dropping out of college to marry a recently divorced, father of two, 26 year old man that she met will working as a barhop—my dad.) The result—while still lovely and still purchased by yours truly—was a 150 person affair at an estate mansion that could handle it all for me. Ultimately, it ended up being a party mostly for our parents, their friends and our family. I would never cave to such pressure now! I don’t think. Ha! I don’t know why we put so much pressure on a wedding day in our society, but you are not alone! It all works out in the end though—isn’t that what mothers say about birth too?