Episode 60: Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

Episode 60: Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

Excerpts from "The Petty Chronicles" every Monday

This Sunday is my eleventh wedding anniversary. Or, rather, it would have been had I not left my husband five-plus years ago, which, truth be told, was six years too late. If only I had been able to pull an “Elaine” on my wedding day: standing dumbfounded at the altar while my crazed lover pounded on the giant window behind me, screaming my name and flailing his fists against the glass. But alas, I could not (no crazed lover was available at the time) and therefore did not. No, I did things the way I always do them — the hard way, thank you very much. I ignored all the signs that told me to call the whole thing off, which is really kind of pitiful, since there were so many of them.

First of all, a month before the big day, I had a terrible dream which caused me to sit bolt upright in bed, shaking and wide awake. In this dream, I was headed down the aisle in my big, lacy dress and happened to glance down at my feet. There, in place of my carefully dyed-to-match-the ivory-of-my-gown pumps, two enormous, red Bozo shoes protruded out from under the hem. They were so huge that you could probably have seen them from outer space without the aid of Google Earth. Seriously, these puppies were gargantuan! Of course, I began to scream, like the champion Bridezilla of all time, refusing to take another step until someone brought me the right shoes, which is when I woke up, in a pool of my own sweat, breathless.

When I recounted the dream to my married friends, they all agreed: it was just a case of nerves. All brides-to-be have crazy dreams. It’s only natural to have a bout of cold feet. My single friends, who already had doubts about my husband-to-be, weighed in with a unanimous “Run while you can!” interpretation of the whole thing. I have to say it was all terribly confusing. But being a glass-half-full kind of gal and having already put the now, non-refundable deposits down on everything from the caterer to the honeymoon, I went with the cold feet scenario. It was too late to turn back, I told myself. It would all work out; it had to. Don’t over-think things. You love him, I continued to rationalize. Yep. Looking back, there can be no doubt: I jumped feet first into the three-ring-circus of my marriage, with my eyes wide open.

As if this was not enough of a premonition, there was the date to consider, which was 7-11. This meant that my wedding date was synonymous with the name of a large chain of convenience stores. And rather than make my heart melt when I thought about that date, the one on which my life would magically be transformed for time immemorial, all I could think about was how much I wanted a slushie. Somehow, I knew that just had to be wrong. But I persevered.

To top it all off, the big day dawned with a ferocious bout of thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour which made me want to gather up every animal on the planet and line them up two-by-two. But all that water was no match for my tears and the sinking feeling I got when I saw my carefully planned garden wedding washing away before my very eyes. Of course, everyone else was relieved that they would be spared the wilting 98 degree temperatures, equally matched by the humidity level. And luckily we did have a back-up plan; the indoor dining area of the venue could double as a spot for the ceremony so all was not lost. Everyone repeated the adage that rain on your wedding day is a sign of a long and happy marriage to come, but I suspected that this rationalization had originally been uttered by a bride who had encountered rain on her wedding day and wanted to make herself feel better. I had no idea how right I was about that until now.

I really can’t believe my wedding day was eleven years ago because it seems so much longer than that. And yet it feels like I said “I do” to the wrong man only yesterday. Part of me wants to haul out the photo album and re-live my wedding day because it was a beautiful wedding and I have a lot of good memories attached to it. But I will resist the urge to look backwards as I have come so far in the past five years that I wouldn’t even recognize the woman who made the mistake of marching down the aisle despite many signs that told her to run for the hills. This year, 7/11 is just another day and although it doesn’t have the same meaning it once did, I still want that slushie.

Check out new episodes of The Petty Chronicles every Monday.

Click the following to learn about The Petty Chronicles and its author, Rachel Gladstone