Bride to Be
So, I’m getting married.
It’s all a lot of input and should-haves and should-buys and not long after I said yes to a man I was saying yes to websites and wedding favors and steak or chicken and extra tents and a whole lot of material things to make the one non-material thing in my life look really pretty in yellow ribbon and daisies.
And although the semi-addicted online shopper in me enjoys parts of this exploration, it does become a glitter and bubbles-filled tornado after awhile. And I, being me, was spinning out of control.
It happened one late night on WeddingPaperDivas.com. I was searching save-the-date postcards. A simple task and one that I was delighted to do. As I surfed I found sweet pictures of hearts and blossoms and knots and kisses and xo’s all over the place. I found myself specifically attracted to those cards that had photos of the to-be-married couples in them.
You know the ones. The couples are multi-ethnic. They probably live in Brooklyn. Or Portland. Or Prague. They met at an art supply store. Or at a mutual friend’s dinner party on the lower east side. They have good skin and bright teeth and they look so damn happy. Especially on black and white film.
I fell in love with a certain template, (or was I in love with the couple? - hard to tell) so I double-clicked on the slick photo not expecting a new window to pop up. The website asked me to upload my own personal picture. Of me. And my fiancé. A photo of us fresh faced with blown out hair and looking like we just had Eggs Benedict with sixteen of our best friends in a quiet restaurant on a cobble-stoned street. And the picture was taken from a stranger passing by, of course, so taken by the joy emanating from our jaws. We look intoxicated from the mimosas and the calorie-free blue corn muffins and with each other. We look so. damn. happy.
Well, I've got to tell you, there is no such picture of my fiancé and I. And believe me, I’ve searched. We’re both geeks. And freaks. And Hams. We have cavities. And allergies. And I would never wear heels on a cobble-stoned street.
But maybe I need to? Maybe I need to look like I am on top of the world like those girls on these blissed-out wedding blogs. Maybe I need to scream and shout and giggle a lot. Because that is what those brides do on TLC. They are out of their minds in love. And boy, can they say yes to a dress.
But I don’t look like those girls. And I certainly don’t feel like they do. And although Jim and I have been together for seven years there is not one photo in our database where I am not about to eat something. Or about to complain about the blister on my toe. Or about to get a zit.
There is not one picture of us looking longingly at each other. Or about to kiss. Or frolicking in some tall grass meadow somewhere. It just doesn’t exist.
And that is where my tornado touched down.
I do not look like other brides: therefore I am not meant to be a bride. I do not act like other brides: therefore I am not ready to be married. And of course, we are not in love, because what we look like together does not match what these shiny people in sepia tones look like. At all.
I know what you’re thinking. Those girls are nineteen and inebriated and they are getting paid AFTRA minimum to be reactive on a reality show. Or, those people in those pictures are actors, are models, they are pretending, they are posing, they are not real either.
But I am the biggest pretender I know. I can act my way through a funeral. Am I just pretending to be a bride? Am I pretending to be happy? Am I not ready to make a big girl promise?
And that is when the knot in my stomach took over surfing TheKnot.com. I suffered a sugar-crash from all the fluffy white marshmallow mass emails selling me the perfect cake topper and I made a decision to detox. And drink seltzer. And hide under the covers. And have a big long talk with myself.
The thing is, getting married is a big deal. It’s a ginormous deal. And while cutting a deal with the DJ is great and all, it is really about the deal I am making with another human being.
The deal says: I take you, for who you are, forever. And even scarier than that, as I came to realize, is that it is saying: you are taking me. As I am. As I am not. As I will be. Someday.
It is saying: I will let you take care of me. I will let you in. As my partner. As my companion. As my backseat driver. It is allowing someone into my groggy morning rituals, my diet-addictions, and all the various self-created tornados in my head.
We don’t look like other couples. And we never will. In our pictures we are making silly faces. Or drinking beer. Or playing games. Or plucking the others ear hair out.
We are coffees and instant oatmeal and asthma inhalers and mouth guards and clipping coupons and too much TV and too much popcorn and talking to each other twenty-two times a day. And sharing everything.
I still don’t know what love looks like. Or what it’s supposed to look like. But I know what my love looks like.
It looks like a used couch that squeaks. It looks like a fourteen-dollar bottle of wine bought on splurge. There is a candle lit. And music in the background. And I am not wearing any makeup. Or shoes. Or pretenses.
And we are talking. And we are listening.
And we are making suggestions on how to live a fuller life. And how to be a better person. And how nothing and everything
matters. And we are teasing each
other. And we are laughing. And I am so. damn. happy.
Adorable, sweet, honest and true. Just like you.
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So very beautiful Erica I'm happy for you & congratulations to Jim!
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