Saturdays Are for Weddings: 13 Weeks

Most of the time, this wedding feels like it's happening to someone else and I am just offering opinions from the sideline. Maybe because that's the role I am used to. It's only been someone else. I've been ok with that (mostly) because I never wanted a wedding for the sake of "joining the club." Not at the price of a Very Bad Decision. It's not that I didn't want to get married. It's that I didn't want to end up discovering I had committed myself to the wrong guy. (There were a couple of close calls, but deep down, I always knew.)

Today, I put on my wedding dress. Not a too-big version, clamped and pinned and awkwardly poking out in places and pooling under my feet, tripping me up. This time, the dress fit me like a glove. It hugged all the right places. It fell, smooth and feminine, just brushing the ground in the front, trailing gently behind me. I turned slowly in front of the mirror, watching the dress move with me. We pulled the train out full. We bustled it.

And just for a moment, I saw a glimmer of myself as a bride.