My Favorite Days – Part Two
I’m posting this week about the best days in my life. Here’s another one of those days:
My Wedding Day. November 30, 1991
(Yeah, I know. Not very original. But true.)
I was a forty-year-old bride – and pretty close to being a forty-one-year old bride at that.
I wore a traditional bridal gown. I had been worried about looking foolish wearing a wedding gown at my age. I even felt foolish at the bridal store. I only tried on two gowns (both samples on sale) and bought the one that fit me better. My mother wanted me to try on more but I refused. I said that I just loved this one and the price was great, so I didn’t want to second guess myself. But in truth, I felt silly. Like any moment someone would snicker behind my back. I only had one fitting, and the feeling persisted, and I cut the appointment short. I didn’t try on the veil until the day before the wedding.
My father walked me down the aisle of a lovely old church while a big pipe organ played some wonderful piece that I don’t even remember now. But I do remember how everyone I loved was there. Everyone I loved was smiling. My mother was beaming. (She certainly had long before given up all hope that I would ever marry. Faith restored.) My boss was there and he gave me a little wink.
All that painful self-consciousness left me at that moment. All that worry about looking foolish trying to be bride at my age. Gone.
The gown was not foolish. It was gorgeous – and for the first time I acknowledged that it was gorgeous – and so was I.
In the whole preceding forty years of my life, I had never once felt beautiful. And now I did.
And there at the altar was my very-soon-to-be husband all scrubbed and polished in a nice tuxedo. And he was smiling.
And now at those (frequent) moments when I really want to kill him, I remember that amazing, transforming walk down the aisle and I give him just one more chance.