To Thine Own Self be True

I picture myself as this romantic, misunderstood heroine, when the reality is that I’m much more the frumpy, slightly overweight, often overbearing, overly critical, perfectionistic dork. I think that’s why sometimes I don’t mind so much being alone, since it’s easier to imagine myself as something other than what I am.

My tenth wedding anniversary passed last month, and as I sat down to watch the warped tape with A., I began to see myself, really see myself, in what was probably the most public performance of my identity that I will ever participate in (besides my death). In the moment when I was supposed to be the radiant bride, smiling broadly at my husband-to-be, glancing lovingly at my father, I was stiff and nervous. I had a vice grip on my dad’s arm, practically trying to will his non-rhythmic step to fall even with mine. Repeatedly, I looked downward at my own feet. You could almost see my lips muttering “we’re almost there, just keep up with me.” When the minister asked who it was that was giving the bride to be married, I should have kissed my dad on the cheek, squeezed his hand. Something.

I had stayed up until 4am the night before, hot gluing the rest of the cake topper, long after the bridesmaids had fallen asleep. I’d somehow managed to dislodge one of my fake nails in the process and despite repeated emersions in hydrogen peroxide it was swollen and throbbing.

Looking back on my wedding day, I realize that at that moment, I was completely trying to be something that I wasn’t. I was trying to be the glowing (sexy) bride who had it all together and succeeded only in a bad caricature. I didn't have it together. I was completely nervous and neurotically wacky and my "mask" repeatedly slipped off.

If I had to do it all over again, I would have kissed my father. I would have said “fuck the damn cake topper.” I would have looked at S.O. instead of the aisle runner. I would have let the inner dork in me shine through.