"I dated Mr. Marriage Material for three and a half years -- even pushing for a ring -- before I really questioned if this person in this lifestyle would really make me happy. And it took me even longer to accept the answer -- No."
It was designed in Paris in 1790 by Guilleret at Bicêtre. Commonly white, the garment immediately caught on as an industry symbol throughout the world. Currently, it is considered the very essence of commitment – and the image one thinks of to put a face on a 34 billion a year business in the United States alone.
My wedding dress was perfect. Black and white pictures perfect. Sucking envy from guests perfect. Guns 'n Roses video in the 90s perfect. It was expensive. It was unique. It was all mine – and just the beginning of a spending orgy that went unquestioned for far too long. The hall. The church. The band. The invitations. No detail would be left unchecked. No restraint necessary -- given my considerable savings and generous (if not misguided) family. All parties involved braced for a six-figure party. Which it would have been – had I not walked away from it two months before the big day.
A story like mine is rarely shared, except as a footnote of misfortune. “What was she thinking…” family members murmur when they think they are out of earshot. (Hey, Aunt Sarah – leaving the kitchen doesn’t hurl you into another vortex where sound is not able to travel…) “I hope she knows what she’s doing…” (Ditto, Uncle Charlie.) But perhaps it is the very lack of acknowledgement to my case makes it all the more tragic.
American women are taught the Rules of Engagement at a young age. Love with a nice guy = marriage = kids = retirement = death. Pretty straightforward path. Most girls -- well, most I know -- anticipate this fate without question. I know I did. I dated Mr. Marriage Material for three and a half years -- even pushing for a ring -- before I really questioned if this person in this lifestyle would really make me happy. And it took me even longer to accept the answer – No.
But it took my friends and family even longer still…
I have a theory on why divorce rates in America hovers somewhere around 50%. Because any individual who voices ancillary views on their impending nuptials is immediately given The Nerves talk by anyone in earshot of their doubt. “Its just anxiety.” “Maybe you’re depressed.” “Everybody goes through this!” Such sentiments, though intended to comfort, have the potential to strip away self-confidence as they hurl the intended further into confusion. The intentional message is clear: Having “the jitters” doesn’t label you as crazy. But acting on them does.
And nothing drives the final nail into your crazy coffin like stopping the wedding momentum. Calling vendors back? Sucks. Returning shower gifts? Sucks. Having to justify yourself to every man, women and bridesmaid who calls for “support”? Sucks.
But there is not an apology strong enough to heal the souls of those you have hurt. Having yet to grow scar tissue around my heart, I assume that I’ll be licking my wounds for quite some time. Which is much better than what I can say about my intended groom. I ripped out his still-beating heart Indiana Jones-style. The guilt of such cruelty – however unintentional – joins my other feelings of self-loathing, embarrassment, resentment and fear in the padded cell of my mind. I am a demon. I am a monster. Why are villagers not amassing in front of my apartment with torches – waiting to drive me back into the forest?
But the angry mobs remain in my head – hurling insults more acute than anything I could ever experience in life. The one I have to confront is myself. I know that I made the right decision in ending things before I limped down the aisle. I know that I would never have been able to live with myself if I had stood before my friends and family and lied. And in moments of doubt, I know that I’ll have to walk into a cold dark apartment for now – maybe forever – and accept that I wagered my present on the hope of a more optimistic future.
My heart races as I anticipate soldiering on towards my first wedding season alone. I fear that I will soon make use of dear Guilleret at Bicêtre’s garment. The very symbol of commitment. Thank you, Monsieur, for your visionary work…in inventing the straightjacket.
