530 Words
Dear God, I am not a religious person. We aren’t even getting married in a church, for Christ’s sake. But this is not just a case of nerves, or the nicotine talking, this is an epiphany. The Groom waiting for me at the end of the aisle (the end of my life) is wrong. Wrong for me, wrong for our future family, wrong for my immediate family. Dear Allah, please help me. I only let it get this far because I want to be married so badly. Lord, I want to be married. I am selfish. I know if I don’t do this, I will end up a weird old lady who lives with 10 cats which will be the bane of my existence. I will be the woman at the supermarket who has kibble in her hat, and mumbles to herself. When I go to pay for my bags of canned tuna, a kitten will pop its head out of my purse, and I’ll have to hiss at it, and then smile at the freaked out cashier like I’m not a barmy old codger.
Deep breaths. I will take up yoga, and go on long retreats at far away resorts, if that’s what it takes. Oh God, this is so sad. I do love him, but for the rest of eternity? There is no way I am becoming a cat lady. When I go through with this, it’s good. No divorces to accentuate my failure to parents. My brothers are monks, and I refuse to be the child demonstrating unfaithfulness by getting a divorce. Oh, God. I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine, where’s my “Dad? I’m fine (excited smile to make him think I’m more than fine), let’s go.”
One foot after another. Left, right, eyes straight ahead through the veil, I’m not ready. Good lord, I’m just getting married, not walking to my execution. Look happy, look I can’t do this, left, right, Oh my God, what is Aunt Cathy wearing on her head? Count the feathers, I can do this, I can do this. Quail is not fashionable, yet it warrants my attention. Thank you Lord, for sending me a miracle!
Scampering out of clearing being pelted with rice with my Groom unhinges my mind for a bit. I feel a wild laugh about to erupt from my lips. What are we running from? What we approach is the largest obstacle / monster under the bed together we have ever faced. We are two separate souls bobbing like the rest of the world in an ocean of questions. Unlike the others, we seem to have answers upon which we float. My answers have slipped to the depths, and now I rely upon my strength to keep appearing buoyant. I need to get drunk.
The connection of cakes is nice. We place our hands on the specialized knife, a souvenir from this night that will reside in a drawer somewhere forever, and cut into the one we assume to be Jupiter of this convectional solar system, together.
The animal I felt earlier resurfaces as I look at him. God help me. The first and last day of forever.
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