All that Glitters

At the church that day, I had the strangest sense of déjà vu, like I had surely been there before although I don’t remember exactly when. I almost felt like I was in a dream, or as if I had been teleported there, time traveling or something. Everything felt surreal. I could hear the organ playing the bridal chorus. Here comes the Bride, all dressed in white. And the bride was me. I was there to get married.

 I could picture everyone sitting in the pews, bride's side on the left, groom’s side on the right. Everyone was expectantly waiting with baited breath for me to walk down the aisle towards my intended. Without sounding too conceited, I imagined they would probably let out a collective gasp of amazement when they saw how stunning I looked in my princess-like wedding gown.

The only problem was I hadn’t brought or worn my wedding dress. That dilemma was hitting me in the face. It was all I could think about as I stood there in faded jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I was ashamed to admit that somehow I had forgotten to wear my own wedding gown to my wedding. Perhaps, it was a Freudian slip and I didn’t really want to get married. Maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Trying to deliver a very important message. Don’t marry him. Not today. You will regret it. Maybe it was like that dream many people have where they show up to work or school naked, unprepared for whatever event, trial or tribulation they were facing. The nakedness was a jarring symbol of their feelings of inadequacy. 

Or worse yet, maybe I was just a baby, a truly selfish creature. I always expected everyone to cater to my every whim and do everything for me. Surely, I automatically expected someone else to bring my dress to the church for me, my mother or maybe one of the bridesmaids. That must be it. I had never learned to be independent and do things for myself. Why should my wedding day be any different? Maybe I felt it was beneath me as the bride to schlep my dress from house to car to church. Whatever the case, I didn’t want to ask anyone if they had brought my dress to the church’s salon where we were supposed to get dressed. I was too embarrassed to admit to my own folly. It was undoubtedly a sign that I was too immature to get married. I couldn’t even dress myself.

I could picture the dress in my mind’s eye. It was a somewhat unusual wedding gown. Like most bridal gowns, it was white, of course, but its bodice was shot through with shiny, sparkly beadwork. Overlaying the beadwork, were heavy glittery threads of gold, sewn into a corset pattern. The whole thing was very royal looking. I would be a princess or a queen, that was for sure. All eyes would be on me. Queen of what, though? Queen of bad decisions? 

Although the dress was exquisite, at the same time, it was very heavy. The corseted bodice clenched me in so tightly I could scarcely breathe. Moreover, the beading and the golden threads weighed the whole dress down like an anchor, making me feel like a prisoner in my own dress. It would take all of my physical strength just to carry myself and the dress down the long carpeted aisle. The dress was surely also giving me a message. Don’t get married, it said. The marriage will be confining and heavy, and you will regret it.

That message made sense to me. What was I doing here anyways? Some people referred to marriage as “getting hitched”. To me, this implied a lack of freedom. I would be tied to another, like a horse whose master held the reins and was no longer able to gallop. No longer was the horse free. Like the horse, I still wanted to gallop. At the risk of mixing too many confining metaphors, I didn’t want to be tied to anyone or weighted down by any kind of anchor. 

I really didn’t know what was going on. I felt like I was being bombarded with warnings from all sides. Everything was a giant stop sign. Don’t do it, the messages were clearly saying. The worst part was, in my dream-like state of fugue, I couldn’t even remember who my groom was. Somehow the past, present, and future were all getting mixed up in my mind. As the brilliant sunlight streamed in, illuminating the church’s beautiful stained glass windows, the choice I was about to make, or maybe had already made, was crystallizing at that very moment in front of God and man. 

Who was my groom today? It was down to two men, my past and my present. I couldn’t even tell if I was now young or old, although I guessed I must still be young since both of my parents were there with me at the church. My dad was still alive. Later in my life, he would be gone before my mother, deceased from a stroke in his mid eighties. Had I already lived through that, and was now traveling back in time? At any rate, I would miss my dad fiercely after he was gone. Life would never again be the same. At this moment in time, however, he was blessedly there with me on my wedding day, standing there proudly in his ill-fitting rented black tux, ready to walk me formally down the aisle.

But back to my two possible grooms. Again, the question remained. Who was I marrying today? Was it my ex-husband, and were we at the beginning of our relationship when things were still relatively good? Unhappily, I would painfully learn later that he turned out to be abusive and controlling. Were the messages I was receiving at that very moment red flags that maybe I shouldn’t be marrying him? Where were the messages coming from? Were they from another version of myself? Were they from an alternate reality, or alter ego, that had somehow already lived through the horrific marriage and was trying to warn me? Should I be listening to that voice? After all, I knew exactly how it would end. Scorched earth. Our marriage would crash and burn in a blazing ball of fire, painfully burning not only ourselves, but everyone around us. 

Or was I now marrying my second love? A man I had met at work, much later in life, well after the birth of my children and subsequent divorce, long after those same children were grown. I had always thought of marrying my guy someday, but somehow was reluctant to take that plunge. Once bitten, twice shy. Although we got along famously and truly loved each other, marriage had never seemed necessary to our relationship. It was no longer a matter of happily ever after. I had already mostly lived my life and so had he. We both already had careers, houses, children, commitments. A past. We no longer had anything to prove.

If we were to get married now, it would not be for practical reasons, but merely because we wanted to. Combining two households and finances at our advanced ages would be tricky. I wasn’t sure that was a bridge I wanted to cross. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it was my oft cited motto. Everything in our relationship was working so well. Why chance fate and push the issue? Maybe part of the reason we got along so famously was that we didn’t live together. Everytime we were together it was still like dating but with a rock solid level of intimacy and trust between us. We didn’t, however, have to see each other at our worst times, warts, morning breath, crankiness, and all – arguing about whose turn it was to take the garbage out or scrub the toilet. 

I was conflicted. My thoughts swirled. Despite my strong misgivings about marriage and given my checkered romantic history, I still had a startling romantic streak inside me. Deep inside me, yearning to get out, was still that starry eyed little girl who dreamed of marrying her handsome prince and living happily ever after. It was, after all, what many of us baby boomers were raised on. Disney fantasies complete with a fairy godmother and a sparkling poofy dress.

In a weird stroke of fate, I had met my significant other at work, at the same time and place as one of my work friends had also met her second husband. She had fallen head over heels in love with her guy, and the feeling was mutual. Unlike me, she had decided to throw caution to the wind and get married once again. Despite it being a second marriage, she even wanted to have a regular wedding. She invited me and a few other friends to accompany her to the bridal store to pick out her gown.

We were thrilled to share in her happiness and excitement. After she tried on one sparkling dress after another in front of a full-length mirror and her supportive group of girlfriends, I felt jealousy rearing its ugly head. Although I was happy for her, I also wanted to be the one trying on the dress and having my moment in the bridal sun. Like any soon to be newly wed, I wanted to say yes to the dress. I wanted to experience the cliché. After all these years, I never thought I would feel that way, but there it was. 

Emotionally I was a mess. What was I doing at the church that day? Did I even want to get married? Who was I getting married to? Should I be getting married or not? My head was spinning. I glanced down, noticing that somehow during my confused psychological meanderings, I was now appropriately dressed, adorned in my white and golden gown, a shiny beacon of hope and purity waiting for a march towards destiny. The organ music swelled.

"Are you ready?" My dad asked, his bright blue eyes looking lovingly into my own uncertain ones. He extended his elbow out for me to ceremoniously grasp.

I nodded weakly. The audience stood up as one. I glanced towards the front of the church where the groom and the rest of the bridal party waited. I looked in amazement at my groom. It was . . .  

Suddenly, I awoke and sat straight up, my heart racing. Single in a double bed. Everything had been a nightmare, traces of which were already rapidly disappearing from my mind. The nebulous image of the groom faded into nothingness, leaving me still wondering who it was I had been about to marry.

I rolled over in my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, claiming the entire bed and the second pillow. I laughed, at the same time letting out a tremendous sigh of relief. The space was all mine. I was happily still free.