In which I share one story of bailing on the groom.
Alright, so I have been close to wedded bliss *ha!* a couple of times or 4. But it scares the hell out of me so, I run. Screw the whole "let's sit down and talk like
rational adults about what I am feeling B.S". That is far too logical and mature. Sheesh! That's expecting a little bit much from me! Yes, I am a runaway bride and not in a cool way!
I will tell you the worst of the 4 stories and you will just know that it happened similar to this story. I was with someone, we'll call him "Fred", for about 2 years. We loved each other and "got on" great. I was happy and so was he. Of course, I was only in my very early twenties. So, that gets me some "Ahh, I see" credit. Although the next 3 times, I was older. *Tangent*
Right. Well, I went through the whole "what church, where and when? Whose going to be in the wedding? Where are they going to sit and with whom? Will they all get along? What colors do we want? What kind of cake, traditional or more reflective of us? Where should we have the reception and what kind of food? And the invitations. We settled on teal white for the colors. I went and had the invitations printed. They were
beautiful and 250 dollars. For Cards!" Does that seem okay to people? The stress added up. Until I felt like I was carrying a camel on my back! Then people just kept yacking at me about it. Half the time like I wasn't even in the room. It became a "thing". Like it had a life of it's own. Living, breathing, pulsating monster sitting on my chest until I couldn't breathe. Then, I looked at "Fred". Could I picture my whole, ENTIRE life with this one man? Would I feed him if he couldn't hold his spoon anymore. Because let's face it, we grow older and time marches on! Would I be able to be there, with him FOREVER?!?!
So, in the middle of the night. Just a few days before the wedding. I packed
as much as I could, and my dog, Chelsea into my Datsun 280Z and left town. Drove 2 and a half hours away. Not a goodbye. No note. No phone call. Just split. Showed up at Mom's in the wee hours of the morning. Not crying, relieved. Like I could breathe again.
"Fred" came and found me a couple of months later. Needed
time to "cool down" before seeing my face again. So as not to high five me in it. It wasn't about him though. It was about the life-sucking wedding. The details. The flowers. The church. The Food. The dress. The guests. The placement. The money. The freakin LIFETIME COMMITMENT! GAH! I'm not a headcase
I had to flee. The flight or fight response took over and flight won.
"Fred" and I stayed together a while and even had an "on again, off again" relationship for several years. We even tried to get married another time. With much the same result. There was another man, we'll call him "George". We tried to marry. The story a little different, but the ending the same.
Now, it's not that I think I am a commitment phob. I think it's the stress of all the planning and the details and the money. I am a pretty laid back gal. That is too much for me.
If I am to EVER get married, I think I know the tactic that would need to be deployed. VEGAS! Yes! Let's go to Vegas and get far too intoxicated. Hop in a car (DD in the driver seat of course) and go to a drive-thru chapel with Elvis presiding. There! Done. Srsly! That's the way. Then later. Have a fantastic reception or wedding for everyone to attend. That way, the deed is done no stress.
Or... Or .... OR... show up under my window. In a wicked 80's, trench coat.
Holding a ghetto blaster over your head like John Cusack. Playing "In Your Eyes", exactly like Say Anything!*Swoon*
So the morale of the story.... All little girls really want to get drunk in Vegas and be completely irresponsible. Or perhaps that is just me.