I Really Wish I Never Dreamt About My Wedding

I wish I could say that I never dreamt about my wedding. That seems like the feminist way. I wish I could say that I didn’t care about a wedding, even now. Especially now.

That would be a lie, though.

To be perfectly honest, I have always been fascinated by weddings.

For Halloween, when I was four, I dressed up as a bride. I’m sure my mother would have preferred I choose a ladybug costume, maybe, or some medical scrubs or a pink tutu. And I know I didn’t I fully grasp what it meant to be a bride. But she let me pick, and I had my little heart set on a white polyester dress with some puffy sleeves and lace and a few sequins. It was unbearably scratchy, as I remember. The dress came with a headband—attached to a tulle veil—and a little bouquet of fake plastic flowers.

It was the epitome of class, and I was enamored.

The bridal costume’s purpose extended years beyond that Halloween. It was put to good use for countless games of “wedding” afterward, during which my brothers would begrudgingly subject themselves to the roles of groom (again, note: understanding of marriage was limited) and ringbearer. Kaitlyn typically played my bridesmaid.

I eventually outgrew that godawful dress, and the elaborate pretend play schemes dwindled over the years that followed. In the throes of middle school and puberty, my interest in all things bridal evolved, but quietly. I excitedly participated in my cousin’s wedding as a flower girl. The Wedding Planner became a staple for movie night. I flipped through Brides Magazine at every opportunity.

And I began planning my own wedding.

In a journal, I collected all the details. Roses and lilies and baby’s breath in the bouquets. A floral wreath for my hair, which would be pulled partially back and curled. I sketched various versions of my dream wedding dress—always a fluffy white princess gown, to be sure. The color scheme would include baby blue and pale green which, not surprisingly, matched my newly painted bedroom walls. The bridesmaids and flower girls would wear wispy A-line silk dresses and matching strappy sandals. All would be grand.

My imagination didn’t stop there, though. There were lists of names, too. Names of people who would make up the bridal party. A heavy dose of naïveté had me believing that my love interests and friend groups would not evolve past the 6^th grade.

Eventually, I grew tired of the task. Or maybe I just felt that everything was set, that all I needed to do was wait for these plans to unfold. In any case, that journal sat in the back of my bedside table until the summer before high school, when a few girlfriends found it during a sleepover. All those detailed wedding notes from years before set the stage for a night of embarrassment, a few hurt feelings, and (finally) laughter.

These days, I still love weddings. I love attending them, celebrating them, and helping to plan them. Sometimes, I still find myself making notes—mental ones this time—to file away the choices I would and wouldn’t make for my own one day.

It’s possible that that day won’t come. Or that, with a sharpening view of reality, I will choose not to spend heaps of money on a big fancy wedding, even if I do find myself with marriage prospects.

For now, I’ll channel all that energy elsewhere. I suppose, in this moment, I’m channeling it here.