Last week was the reconvening of las hermanas pedas- my best friends since childhood. We all got together in Whistler to see Alej and Rachel declare their love for one another in front of family and friends. It was a beautiful ceremony, one that thawed my heart for a moment to feel the warmth that marriage between two soulmates is indeed a miracle. And I even managed to knock ‘em dead with my “bridesmaid” speech.
A few weeks leading up to the wedding, though, I could sense this ball of anxiety rising in me. For whatever reason, I get very anxious attending weddings. Doesn’t matter who’s getting married, where, or when, I just get really uncomfortable. I’ve gone through a few hypotheses as to why. The first one is that I don’t want to travel, and it’s too expensive. But I know that’s a bunch of BS because I travel all the time. Maybe it’s because weddings are boring. Yes, they can be, but I also know that weddings are a ton of fun to see old friends who live far away, and I almost always have a great time when I get there, so that’s not it. Is it because I am a 33 year-young woman who hasn’t been in a relationship for some time now, and gets reminded by showing up stag that I’m not any closer to popping out a kid? No, that’s not it either because I don’t give a damn if I’m a woman whose eggs are slowly expiring. Motherhood has not been a huge priority for me ever, and last time I checked that hasn’t really changed. May be something more Freudish—Is it because I’m secretly jealous and bitter that my friends are getting married, and I want them all to myself? Could be, but I love so many of my friends’ partners, that I feel like I end up winning since I get more friends. Plus, I know myself—there’s not a spiteful bone in my body when it comes to my friends’ happiness. My latest theory is this: I dread weddings because my marriage was a disaster, and every time I go to a wedding, I relive my own marriage that has taken me many years to heal. Chicken or egg—not sure if the relationship triggered the depression that was already latent in me, or if the fact that I even got in that relationship was a symptom of my depression. Either way, one thing led to another, and I was married and divorced after seven months by the time I was 24. I don’t remember much of the wedding day, but I do remember the nightmares I used to have leading up to the wedding day. The center aisle of the church would slowly flood with swamp water and snakes, and I would start panicking unable to walk down the aisle. If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.
Fast forward 10 years later, I know that I am all the stronger and wiser because of my experience, but I still have a bit more thawing to do. And that’s okay by me, even if it’s after the eggs expire.