I have been thinking recently about if, when, how, I would get married (again). There is it’s, the little word (again) that haunt my wedding dreams (again) because it would be (again). It would be the second time and however much I want to ignore it, I would have to tick the divorced box.
Obviously, the first time did not work out. It was not the weddings fault though, the wedding went well in a polished, traditional entirely forgettable magazine experience. The planning, oh the planning for my big day. I spent hours, days, months on the build up doing all the things young brides are supposed to do. I hand wrote 100 invitations, fingers aching as I scribed the same golden words over and over again, double checking the spelling of the obscure names.
I poured over the magazines, overwhelmed by the amount if stuff needed to tie the knot and the advertising, brain washing, worked. I spent 100’s of pounds on details, chocolate favours that tasted of soap, the confetti for the table that did not match, the overdone flowers, the grumpy photographer. I panicked about table names, I couldn’t find 12 corresponding things to name them after. The worried about the seating, it was all OK until 4 people failed to show which left my best mate on his own. And me, I bought the heels too high to walk in and spent most of the time bare foot. I bought the Agent Provocateur garter that I didn’t think he even noticed. I bought the dress that, of course, I would never wear again. The two sets of underwear. The foundation, tiara, veil. And I arrived in a horse drawn carriage, like a princess.
Reading this so far, you might think I have forgotten about the focus of the day, the man. What did he do? I am trying to think. Oh yes, he organised the string quartet, he made sure every obscure great aunt was invited. He changed the guest list depending on his current work colleges. He forgot to thank he grandmother in his speech causing her to take such an offence he felt it only right to go to the local supermarket after the breakfast and buy her some flowers. He answered his phone to his father who rang him just as we got into the hotel room for the first time. And yes, he did actually marry me.
We were divorced two years later.
So this time, next time, when I do it (again) I know what to do. And I can do it well. I find it hard to even hug my men in public, let alone kiss in front of the entire extended family, so I won’t invite them. I will invite our close friends only. No one wants to spend the whole day hanging around in uncomfortable clothes. So I will get married late afternoon and have a great meal after.
I will buy a dress which will make me feel great and I will wear it over and over again.
There will not be favours and confetti and place cards. No gift list or garters. The shoes will be ones I can run, jump, skip in. And best of all, the perfect man. The man I know that this time, I want to spend the rest of my life with.