I remember a flurry of women around me, frantically applying makeup and hurriedly pulling on red dresses. My Aunt Candy was in the middle of it all, wearing a long white gown and a veil. My sister walked into the room carrying a basket of flowers, also wearing a long white gown—a tiny replica of Aunt Candy’s dress. I was 4 years old and brimming with joy—until suddenly, they were all gone. As I sat with my babysitter, it hit me: I was not going to be part of this “wedding” thing everyone had been talking about for months.
It was years before I could look through Aunt Candy’s wedding photo album without a flood of resentment washing over me. I could have been a flower girl, you know. Plenty of people have more than one. I had been left out of many things in my early years, but this one hit a little harder than the rest. I was left out of a wedding. That’s like not getting asked to prom. For me, it was a gut punch that seemed like it would never stop stinging.
Then something happened that rocked me so hard, I nearly forgot about Aunt Candy’s wedding. My friend—my best friend, by the way—got married right after high school graduation, and she had the nerve to ask someone else to be her one and only bridesmaid. I wanted to be the girl standing by her side in an expensive dress so hideous I could never possibly wear it again. I wanted to catch the bouquet, forcing my boyfriend to pop the question. So many dreams shattered.
My day finally came. My sister asked me to be a bridesmaid—probably because she felt guilty about the whole flower girl thing years earlier. Eventually, I even became a bride. I was in my glory. I got to wear a veil and a white gown and disappoint a younger relative who got stuck at home with a babysitter.
For so much of my life, I was caught up in being a bride that I lost sight of the true outcome of that big day of glory—a marriage. It may not come as a huge surprise, but that marriage did not last.
I spent much of my life making weddings about me, when that’s really never the case. It’s about the love—and not just the love between the bride and groom.
This March, I will celebrate 18 years since my second turn as a bride. There was no gown, just a short slip dress. I didn’t wear a veil because the ceremony took place on a windy beach in Key West, Florida. There was no crowd to stand and salute me as I walked down the sandy aisle; it was just me, my groom, a bridesmaid, a best man, and my mom.
My bridesmaid was my lifelong best friend—my grandmother. I thought it was only fitting, since she had been married in the same spot decades earlier. She was in her 70s on my wedding day, so I assumed the maid of honor role probably wasn’t the big deal to her that I had made it out to be for most of my life. But then, after the ceremony, she turned to me and said, “Thank you, Les. I was so afraid I would never be back here again.”
I spent much of my life making weddings about me, when that’s really never the case. It’s about the love—and not just the love between the bride and groom.
