Wedding Toast

The bride stands up and nods at the DJ. The music stops and she clears her throat as she is clinking her champagne glass with a knife. Guests stop talking and turn to her.

Thank you everyone for being here tonight! Daniel and I couldn’t be happier that you are all here with us.

She pauses and looks at the groom sitting next to her.

“Right, babe?”

Guests chuckle and the groom waves an exasperated hand. The gesture is playful, loving.

The human psyche is designed to endure great pains, the spirit can take on a lot before it gets broken. But if the human spirit consists of steel, of weathered rocks, mine consists of saran wrap.

Stretch me too far and I'm sure to tear; plate me over something too hot and my integrity is compromised, condensation weighing me down.

And as almost all of you here know, put me ten kilometers over the sea, in a moving metal tube that glides over clouds, and like the film roll, I trip over myself and no one can unroll me evenly without tearing pieces in the process. 

That might have been too dramatic, even for my standards, but don't worry, I will be getting someplace with this. This is my wedding toast after all, and I want to make sure I give my new husband the credit he deserves. 

So, eight years and five months ago, Daniel and I met. What only a handful of you know —no, it's okay baby, it's time— is that we actually met eight years and six months ago. 

The golden years of Tinder, before all those ethically monogamous guys and unsolicited dick pics —sorry mom, sorry dad—, I swiped right on a guy that didn’t seem like a serial killer, or worse, into IPAs. 

Guests and groom chuckle.

We texted for a week before we were finally able to meet. 

So we meet, and it's the 26th of September. I know, I know. It will get a bit worse before it gets better. No spoilers, but you are listening to a wedding toast so we can all safely assume it gets a bit better.

Most of you here know that this date is the anniversary of my grandparent's passing when their ferry sank. 

That day, on the tenth anniversary of their passing, when we met with Daniel at a coffee shop and started debating the merits of coffee versus green tea —debating pointlessly because he is beyond redemption at this point but it's alright, cause have you seen hit butt, again, sorry to all our relatives—, I get a text from my mom saying my sister got into an accident during her road trip, she has no signal, she will let me know more soon.

Guests murmur.

Mom and I have both been to therapy since, but back then, we both shared —aside from our stone-cold looks— a deep, deep fear of anything happening to our loved ones.

Especially when those loved ones were away from us or travelling without us. We immediately felt they weren’t safe if we weren’t there with them.

Now, the sane of you would say, "But Zoe, what difference would your presence make if something bad were to happen?", and you I ask, in what have you invested all that money you have saved up from not needing to go to therapy, ever?

Guests laugh and the bride smiles.

But alas, that fear which might have started out as a sprout of childhood anxiety, would have probably stayed a shallow patch of grass if our family hadn't been given the shovel with which to push it deeper and let it grow roots. 

You see, when stuff that you only see in the news happens to you, then you are just mentally and constantly preparing for the next time this will happen. So, back to that dreadful date, my mom's text caused me to have a full-blown panic attack and an even bigger attack of no one can see me like this, they will think I am crazy.

Groom reaches out and clasps his hand with hers.

See? That’s why I married you. That, and your butt too.

Guests chuckle again. 

I'm stalling because the food is not here yet. Hopefully I'll get you drunk enough before you notice you are hungry. So, where were we? 

Her sister says, panic attack. The bride laughs and asks, which one? Sister says, the one because you loved me so much.

So in a bout of absolute surety that something terrible has happened to my sister, I excuse myself, run off from the back door of the cafe, crying and walking, constantly checking my phone for any updates. 

By the time I'm home, Daniel has called me twice, has sent me two texts because he worries, and I am hyperventilating so I delete his phone and block his profile too, because just the thought of someone being able to reach me at any moment while I'm basically thinking that I don't have any black summer outfits appropriate for a funeral —again, that was before therapy— makes me too overwhelmed.

Fast forward to a month later, and it is time to fly for this tech conference I'm giving a presentation at, and I'm sitting on the back row as always. I'm still a jumble of nerves; my sister's accident, which eventually turned out to be a very minor injury, the conference, the fact that I have to fly there.

So imagine my joy, my elation —there is definitely a German word for what I am feeling which loosely translates to panic-induced-watery-bowel-movements—, when the dreamboat I ghosted a month ago boards the plane.

Of course he is, because he is presenting at the same conference as I, which dawns on me now. I would have obsessed over that fact had I not been busy with driving my sister back and forth from physio sessions for her sprained middle finger because this is my life now, apparently. Could it not be any other finger?

Guests laugh, sister appears mock-mortified.

I notice him immediately because I'm on a high alert on a plane; what if I notice something amiss that no one has and I save us from the direst of straits? What if I detect a hijacker tinkering with a bomb, or smoke coming from the engine? I cannot afford to let my guard down; everyone depends on me. 

So I see every face, and my husband’s over there is hard to miss. I shrink on my seat, making silent pleas to the Universe. If he sits in the first half of the plane, I won't eat sugar for two months. If he sits at least five rows ahead of me, then I will finally adopt those poor domestic sheep at the zoo that no one wants to sponsor. If he doesn't sit in my row, I will start jogging each morning at six. 

If he doesn't recognize me, at five. 

"Zoe?" he asks, incredulously. Thanks, Universe.

Guests laugh.

"Me? No," I say. 

"Mrs. Fulton? You selected the low fat menu, correct?" a stewardess joins our little bubble of happiness and I look down to where a hole might conveniently appear for me to slip through. 

"Mrs. Fulton? Zoe Fulton?" 

I admit defeat and grab my sad egg-whites omelette and what looks like half of a grapefruit and then say, "Oh, hi, Daniel.”

Guests laugh again, Daniel says something that makes her laugh too.

Daniel is pissed. His lips are pursed, and he makes no eye contact, the same look he gets now if I spoil it to him that the series we just watched is planned for two more seasons.

Guests laugh, the groom is hiding his face in his palms, the bride mimics a male deep voice.

"It's fine, we don't have to talk" he says and puts down his earphones after he settles. He angles his body as far away as the seat allows, which is not so much. We both skimmed on the good seats.

We are taxing soon and my shame is replaced by the fear of what lies ahead, my gaze fixed decidedly on the stewardess who is demonstrating the safety measures on board. 

I nod; yes, inflate the lifejacket after I escape the aircraft unless I am over the wings which I am not, why would I, that is just crazy; illuminating stripes will guide me to the next exit; why, yes I am taking the time to locate the nearest exit because it is indeed next to me, even though let’s be honest, I don’t have to check; every time I fly, I book a rear row. As close to the back as possible, because I've heard that it's the safest place to be in case of an accident.

It is also the least hygienic one as it is next to the toilet but my safety trumps the wellbeing of my nose.

Guests chuckle.

I am noting the time so I can count down each one of the seventy minutes the pilot has promised this flight will last. I drone out Daniel completely, gripping onto both armrests, legs bouncing, eyes staring at the fasten-your-seatbelt light so intently that my eyes start watering.

It's a bumpy flight, so the light stays on. My anxiety which I've compressed into one of these garment storage plastic bags that you suck the air out of, finds a tiny hole and starts taking in more air, taking up more and more space. I knew it then and I know it now too: Turbulence means nothing.

But tell that to my newly diagnosed anxiety. Like a newborn, she demands my constant attention and validation of her importance.

In my mind I was already wondering which pictures would my family choose for my memorial.

Daniel is still ignoring me, only accidentally touching my arm which at this point has melded with the armrests. 

There is a ping and it’s time for the usual mid-flight announcement. I almost chant softly, "please only in feet, please only in feet" before the pilot says the dreaded "... flying at twenty thousand feet, or six kilometers.”

"Oh fuck you,” I say, somewhat loudly, but respectfully to the pilot. I don’t want to anger the Universe more by not revering the person who holds my life in his hands; my ire is with the aviation traditions, not him.

“What did you say?" Daniel asks and I jump on my seat, as I had forgotten about him. My quiet swearing timed excellently with him reaching for a power bank for his dead headphones.

"Nothing, sorry, I just hate when the pilot makes the conversion from feet to kilometers.”

He nods and says nothing but after a few seconds his curiosity prevails.

"Why?" he asks, forgetting his embargo against me. 

I probably said something charming and witty like “feet are not threatening”, I don’t remember anyway, but the cad had the gall to reply that I am an engineer anyway and I could do the conversion on my own anyway, probably.

Guests ooh conspiratorially 

Right? Insufferable.

Bride blows a kiss to the groom.

“Of course I can," I snap at him, "I just don't need the reminder of how I am but a pinprick nine kilometers above sea level!"

Then he murmurs something.

"What?" I snap again, still gripping the armrests with hands so clammy that squelching noises come out when I change the angle of my grip.

"It's actually six. Six kilometers, not nine," he says. 

Guests laugh and boo, sister facepalms herself and yells “Typical!”

"Oh, alright, what a relief, then. I am sure we will just get a scratch in case of a crash, thanks Daniel!”

The groom shrugs and laughs.

He opens his mouth to say something, but wisely reconsiders. The plane seems to jolt up and down, and now we have officially entered an actual nightmare of mine; a veritable thunderstorm, rain pelting at the windows with the force of trick-or-treaters when they see there is light inside, lighting bolts blinking almost like a strobe light at a rave.

My legs are bouncing, I seem to defy gravity because I am certain I am floating a few centimeters off my seat, or we hit a vacuum and I'm literally floating and in this case where are the oxygen masks? 

I'm supposed to put on my own mask before I assist anyone who travels with me. 

It takes a while to realize the weight I feel on my left shoulder is Daniel, squeezing my shoulder, and not a panic-induced heart attack.

"Zoe? Are you okay?" 

"What? Yes. No. No, I have a fear of flights. And travelling in general, really. How unfair that other people get the cool phobias and I can’t even have a single-word name for it." I say, almost manic now.

He stays silent.

"Others get atychophobia," I add. 

"What's that?" 

"Fear of failure, which is ironic because I have that too,” I explain as I look in my bag for my brand new anti-anxiety medication. The doctor agreed I don’t have to take them daily but as needed, as long as I work on the source of my anxiety and on developing healthy coping mechanisms.

Daniel looks at the bottle and turns his head away from me, and I am thinking, boy, do I know how to make small talk and also thank God for great boobs otherwise no one would ever date me. Sorry mom, sorry dad.

Parents chuckle and guests look around as the first platters of food start arriving at the tables.

Ah, great, food is here. Okay, almost done. So, I worry that I made the situation even more awkward, when Mister Mirriam Webster over here says:

 "Actually, there is a word for it, acrophobia, which means a fear of being airborne, which I agree, not as cool as thalassophobia."

I groan. "Please, not while we're over actual waters."

“Sorry,” he says, and even though I am still looking at the fasten-your-seatbelt light, willing it to turn off and then the storm will maybe cease, his voice is soothing.

Guests aaaw.

"How come you are afraid of planes?" he asks, just as the plane shakes so violently that I cannot even register that my hand is now covered by Daniel’s. 

And then the vacuum-sealed bag of clothes takes all the air in, words and thoughts inside me expand, pouring out. 

I tell him about my grandparents; how ten years later and it still hurts; my mother’s fears and how I need to share them, to make it easier for her to hold; my childhood anxieties coalescing and taking up a solid form that sits like a fat cat on my chest; my sister's accident. 

I even tell him about our date and how sorry I am, and how I hate it when the fasten your seatbelts light is on, because this means there are reasons to worry, and then I feel a squeeze on my hand and I look down to see our fingers intertwined.

I don’t realize how momentous that is, and how lighter my chest feels, fat cat lured away with a treat.

She wipes a tear and looks at him, to her side. Guests are mostly quiet, some are already eating the appetizers.

"It's off," you said.

"What?” I asked.

“The light's off". 

I look up and see that the light is finally, blessedly off.

Outside, the pelting rain has retreated to a gentle shower. The airport's lights are nearing.

I take a full breath, probably the first one of the day, and say, “I owe you a cup of that disgusting green swill you like. Want to go grab a cup after we get our bags?”

What I really meant, but I didn’t know at the time was, “One day, our love will make me fear less and live more.”

Guests aaw, and some wipe tears.

“That, and a licensed mental health professional. But mostly, the other thing. So have a cup of whatever with me while the adrenaline is still coursing through me, making me courageous?” Or something like that. To Daniel!

She lifts her glass to him and he gets up to clink glasses, kisses her. Guests lift their glasses before turning to their plates. Music resumes.