I don’t really “do” weddings. This statement may sound strange and as foreign coming from me as a newly docked boat full of Asian immigrants singing “Yankee Doodle”, but I can assure you that it’s true.
Indulge me the opportunity, if you will, as I feebly attempt to explain my position before you dismiss me as ungrateful or even worse a hypocrite. It is not that I don’t relish the sentiments of “happily ever after” per say. I am sure that most people’s eyes get misty seeing the blushing bride or the groom in freshly rented tails while toddlers throw rose petals haphazardly down the aisle. However, I don’t especially enjoy them. I compare this to the mechanic who never changes his own oil or the chef who survives solely on the nourishment of Ramen Noodles. Every day I write about love. I swim immersed in it.
What it means when he calls. What it means when he doesn’t call.
I discern how it behaves and how to go about finding it when you can’t really tell the difference between raging hormones and the rarity of it all.
I plunge heart first into love and it consumes my thoughts and keeps me huddled over my laptop well past the time when the rest of the city is sleeping. Tumultuous and twisting, these thoughts sweep across my face and behind my eyes, but rarely for myself or my own selfish gratification.
Every date is a lesson. Every date is a column. Every date is for you.
I was recently and forcibly coerced into attending my best friend’s wedding.
Although never discussed, I suspected that that he understood my ambivalence towards actual wedding ceremonies when I had declined all other invitations sent me over the last four years. This was perhaps the reason a follow-up telephone call was made after I had not responded graciously to his R.S.V.P.
“I fully intend to celebrate at the reception as long as there is liquor.” I offered.
“Best friend trumps neurosis.” He said to which I had to grievously acquiesce.
Along with my plus one, I made it to the cathedral with barley a noticeable slur in my wording as I greeted people I rarely see. Excusing myself, I made my way behind the rows and rows of seating and through some back panel doors down a hallway trying to find the bathroom.
There she was, dressed head to toe in white silk with lace and about a million tiny buttons. For a single moment, her eyes caught mine and took my breath away. I smiled despite my best efforts. Her eyes were transparent and I could see all the way into her.
There was so much excitement and promise blinking from behind them. Sure, she was scared, but it was the kind of terror that you feel right before you take an exam that you know you’re going to ace.
It was lovely to witness her in those briefest of moments.
Making my way back to the metal folding chair, which was supplied to the guests who arrived late, I sat down just in time to hear the organ announce the procession.
I saw the groom’s eyes puddle with tears as the bride gracefully marched to his side and I looked over to see my friends sitting beside me crying into tissues after they heard “I do”. In an effort to lighten the moment, I poked my plus one and said, “Relax, it’s only their first marriage.” Although my plus one laughed, the couples sitting in front of us did not find my statement amusing.
Mercifully, the reception had a fully stocked bar which provided the tools needed for me to shove my emotions back down into the little black box inside my heart where I keep them safely hidden. I looked across the table and saw friends coupled with their plus ones and suddenly thought to myself, “O my, we’re growing up. Soon it will be their turn walking down the aisle.” Weeknights full of martinis and gossip will be replaced by endless baby showers and circus themed birthday parties.
With this, my floodgates were opened and my eyes began to leak. It wasn’t because I need any kind of assurance that I too one day will find the one who will love me for who I am and will simply relish living with all my eccentricities.
The truth is, I love my life.
I love being single and first dates with their endless possibilities.
I love coming in after a date and writing about what made it special and sometimes uniquely disastrous.
…And mostly, I love that you continue to read.
No comments:
Post a Comment