“Ten years,Ten…years… Ten years…Ten…years!!!” Jeremy Piven in Grosse Pointe Blank
It is shocking that ten years has passed since I fretted about the flowers, chortled about the Chardonnay and howled at the honeymoon. But here I am, reminiscing about my wedding. I choose to see that June event as a slice of life in the midst of a-hmmm, what’s the word-let’s say, challenged period of my existence. I had just quit my job of ten years, hadn’t spoken to my estranged biological father in the same amount of time and worried about how my mother and step-father’s divorce would affect the nuptials.
After all, who doesn’t tense when saddled with the burden of creating the “perfect” day? Is it ever? Yet, month after month, year upon year, women do their best to do their-um, best. What I remember about my wedding day, however, was not the items I carefully checked off of the “to do” list or how my mother and step-father chose to deal with their “issues.”
Perfection came in the form of a brief moment-one that remains, to this day-as pivotal as it was then. As I stood on the threshold of this moment, I couldn’t imagine how my life would change.
The makeup, the dress, the bridesmaids were all in place. My mother was in the capable care of one of the groomsmen. The glistening ocean sparkled below us and a long white, fabric covered aisle offered an expansive runway across the beautiful, manicured lawn to my husband-to-be, who stood at the altar with legs slightly bent-to prevent a fainting, of course-along with my step-brother/officiant. The energy of a year’s worth of preparation and hundreds of guests, four attendants and one grumpy videographer, whirled around me.
I had the distinct feeling that if it weren’t for my dress, shoes and veil, my body might fly apart in an explosive, fireworks extravaganza of emotion. But no-I stood vibrating slightly from it all-not sure how I would take even one step.
Then my step-father took my arm and wrapped his fingers in mine and whispered, “You ready?” An angelic peace enveloped every part of my body. I exhaled for the first time since the proposal and the aisle looked a whole lot shorter. In that beautiful moment, full of grace and charm and warmth, I felt supported and loved and-most surprisingly-perfectly imperfect. Like the little engine that could, I lifted my foot and took my first step-through the threshold and into that beauty and grace, charm and warmth. The sparkling sea, altar, officiant and, yes, my husband-to-be beaconed.
Since then, even through miscarriages and marital discord, heartache and doubt-I have never forgotten that moment-and the volumes it taught.