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what if?

January 30, 2015

The florist was interested in helping me get what I wanted?

The florist had understood what the words “coral pink” meant?

I’d worn the floral wreath I made myself? The one that I’d made sacred through usage in Pagan rituals. {The roses weren’t coral pink, but they were a different shade of pink that I actually liked.}

The manicurist my mother sent me to actually had colors to choose from that I liked? Instead, the color I made do with… did turn out to match the roses, the ugly-not-coral-pink roses.

I’d worn the green velvet cocktail dress instead? The one I felt gorgeous in. The one I had cleavage in, for the only time in my life.

I hadn’t been a nervous wreck from the stress of all the significant-to-me details that no one could be bothered to help me out with? Would my father then have not made fun of me that morning {helpfully captured on the wedding video} for “being spacey”?

My mother’s main concern with the decorations in the living room wasn’t that she “got them for free” from work? Because maybe then they could have been colors that didn’t set my teeth on edge. Or something approaching a style I liked, instead of ugly.

Somebody had reminded me about music? Because I really wanted Pachelbel’s Canon. Or just something pretty and memorable. Instead, there was no music at all.

Somebody had searched high and low for the “perfect” necklace for me to wear? The way I did for my sister for her wedding a year before. Instead, no necklace at all.

The judge had respected my wishes, and not mentioned God?

My mother hadn’t threatened to invite JM if I invited Kendra, or any other Wall cousin? Therefore, I couldn’t have any of them, or a “big” wedding at all.

Missy had believed Spouse and I would be happy together, so she had agreed to be my bridesmaid?

I had a friend to ask to be my attendant that actually cared about me? Nope. My mother forced me to have my sister, since she’d already forced my sister to have me. The one thing I did my way was telling my sister she could wear whatever she wanted. So she shows up . . . in the blue dress she’d forced me to wear to her wedding (which looked terrible on me), but remade for her, and she looked great in it. Yay.

My mother hadn’t erased my surname from the sign in the lobby? Obviously, the important name to have on the sign would be her surname, plus Spouse’s surname. When I confronted her about it: “No one will remember yours, dear!”

My mother had listened to me when I explained that Spouse’s parents didn’t drink alcohol, and Spouse and I didn’t like champagne, so we didn’t want a champagne toast at the reception?

Somebody who actually liked me had given one of the toasts at the reception? There were 3: my father, my brother, and my godfather. None of them said anything about me as an individual, never mind someone beloved. One did reference Spouse as someone that was cared about. Yay. The other 2 were so generic they could’ve been about a stranger. Oh, wait.


January 30, 1993, was the most stressful day of my life.

I felt like an unwanted interloper at my own wedding, so I was super-glad, every year, for my mother to gush over “what a fun party!” it had been, and how much “all the guests” enjoyed themselves.

We should have eloped to Las Vegas, like we’d originally planned.

I’ve never even been able to think about “renewing our wedding vows”, because the wedding was so awful/stressful/enraging.

“Happiest day of my life”? NO.

I really feel bad for Spouse. Apparently he has fond memories of our wedding, but he can’t share them with me, because when I think about our wedding, I’m angry and rage-y. Or I cry a lot. Or both.

22 fucking years of this.

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