I always saw myself as someone who would lift her chin, square her shoulders, and take the hit. Figuratively.
I wish reality lived up to my imaginings.
Because there was nothing noble about crying through your makeup on the floor of your closet in your wedding dress.
On your wedding day.
The day that was supposed to be the happiest of your life, full of joyful tears, kind words, kissing, dancing, cake eating. I was supposed to tell my mom to stop crying, but secretly adore the genuine joy of it. I was supposed to drink too much champagne, take beautiful pictures that would hang on my wall for decades, perfectly posed photos that my little girls would look up at with wonder and awe and hope much like my sister and I had with our parents’ and grandparents’ wedding day pictures.
The only tears I should have had were ones of genuine happiness.
Not these ugly ones.
These angry, bitter, confused, frustrated ones.
It all started out right, too.
I’d kicked Gary out the night before. As was tradition. You never spend the night before your wedding with your soon-to-be life partner. It was supposedly ‘bad luck.’
I’d given him a hopeful kiss before shutting the door, going about two hours’ worth of beauty primping with Gemma – face masks, hair masks, split-end trimming, exfoliating, lotioning, just getting everything as perfect as it could be.
Then I’d gone to bed early after drinking a ton of water, so I would wake up hydrated and not puffy.
My mom and sister came over early, bringing coffee and sweet breakfast treats – cranberry orange scones, banana crepes, cinnamon swirl muffins. We ate, talked, took it easy.
Then I started getting ready, showering, doing all the last minute things like shaving, tweezing my eyebrows, painting my nails.
My mom helped me arrange my hair, sticking in a small, delicate pearl clip she had worn on her own wedding day.
Borrowed.
I clasped on my cross from my grandmother.
Old.
I slipped on the pretty pearl earrings Gemma had gotten me.
New.
And then Miller had showed up with a Tiffany blue thong, giving me a smile and eyebrow wiggle.
And then I had my blue.
We made our way to the venue then where we had white wine while I did my makeup, then finally slipped into my dress.
I won’t deny it.
As my family left to go find their seats, greet guests, I sat down in the room.
And I nearly sweat through my dress.
Nerves.
Just nerves.
Surely.
Just normal.
Everyone had nerves on their wedding day.
You were promising your future to someone, all your ups and downs, all your hopes and dreams.
That was a big deal.
If you weren’t nervous, you likely weren’t taking it seriously enough.
And me, well, I took it very seriously.
I looked at things all very logically.
Right down to choosing my partner.
I had a list.
I mean, I had lists for everything.
I had a list for acceptable nail color shades.
So of course I had a list of qualities I wanted in a partner. From the superficial – tall, fit but not too muscular, wore suits comfortably, had great hygiene – to the more serious. I wanted someone driven career-wise, someone who understood the demands of my job because their own was demanding as well. He had to be well-spoken, mature, a good driver, only a social drinker.
I even had a section for things I didn’t want – manwhores, mama’s boys, former or current drug users, gamblers, or binge drinkers, men who played video games, cursed too much, used potty humor, or, well, scratched himself when others could see.
I mean, really.
That one went without saying.
Like guys were the only ones who had itches in inappropriate places. That didn’t mean you could scratch or readjust in front of other people.
But judging by the sheer number of men I saw doing such things in public situations, it did need to be said.
The list was long, a front and a back of a college-ruled piece of paper, an ongoing thing I had started – and edited on and off as things changed – when I was eighteen, understanding that the first step to getting what you want was knowing what you want.
I mean, after all, that was how I got the job I wanted, making the money I made, having the power I had.
I wrote it down.
Then refused to settle for anything less.
So why couldn’t I do that with a partner?
Then there was Gary.
He checked almost every single box, only missing a few inconsequential ones about food preferences and family background.
That really didn’t sound romantic, I guess.
And maybe it wasn’t.
If I were perfectly honest about the whole situation, it wasn’t exactly the whirlwind love story it looked like from the outside.
We seemed like we rushed into it, like we went from casually dating to mostly living together to engaged to almost married in such a short period of time.
What other explanation could there be except some unstoppable force of passion?