I got married on the later side as I always suspected I would, if I got married at all. Shy and introverted throughout my teenage and college years, I embarked on dating on the later side and I wasn’t burning to find my perfect mate. As my 30th birthday—and then my 35th—came and went, I didn’t feel pressured because my friends and siblings were getting married and having kids. I had never fantasized about a fairy-tale wedding and so I’d never thought all that much about the dress I was going to wear. So, when I finally did stumble upon the right guy and got engaged, I wasn’t even sure I’d wear white. This was my fiancé’s second marriage and the idea of wearing white seemed too antiquated and frankly a bit false. I would look better in an olive green, I thought, something that would complement my hazel eyes. I was even a little smug about this position. How pure, really, were all those women wearing white?
“Have you found your dress yet?” people kept asking before I had even started looking. How would I know when I found it? I wondered. And really, why all this fuss? Wouldn’t any semi-fancy frock do? But to appease the masses and to take a step toward checking something off my growing wedding To Do list, I made some appointments at various shops around the area and went with a girlfriend to try a few on. And then, I admit, a certain appeal began to take over. I wasn’t expecting this.
First off, there was something about looking pretty. OK, I know this may seem very obvious to most people, but wedding dresses are really nicely made, and they feel nice to wear. As the dress stylist carefully buttoned up the back of each bodice, I felt regal, excited, propped up. The dresses brought up the level in the room. They caused me to come into myself in a way. I felt transformed, somehow more worthy, more ready for the massive experience called Marriage.
And then, almost imperceptibly, I too began to obsess about finding the right dress. We visited two more shops that day. Each time I felt we were inching closer and closer to the right one. We took pictures, tried on shoes, draped veils over my disheveled hair. With each dress, a certain hope bubbled up in me that we would find The One. But I didn’t find it that day or several weeks later in the next set of shops. I started to worry. What if I didn’t ever find it? What if I had to make do with a dress that would never feel quite right. Would my fiancé’s mind flash back to a memory of marrying his first wife in her white dress? Would it really be Our Day or would the day be tainted with traces of that first wedding, that first marriage, all because I was unable to locate the right dress?
This obsessing started to extend to other parts of the ceremony as well. Suddenly I did care—deeply—about the color of the ribbon around the mason jars that held each floral centerpiece. The bridesmaid dresses had to be a very exact shade of turquoise. I was terrified I’d never be able to pinpoint the perfect first dance song. At a certain point I realized that was the crux of it. I was afraid. As much as I was elated at the prospect of life with my future husband, I was also scared. This was a big step. Obsessing about this dress and all those other wedding details allowed me not to obsess about the heavier details of the union. Will it be forever, will it endure, am I making the right choice?
And so finally, in facing this vulnerability, I began to let go of these obsessions. My husband’s mind might flash back to his first wedding. And that would be OK. It wouldn’t negate the connection that we had. In fact, it could bring us closer. And then I found it – on the deep discount rack, almost an afterthought. It felt like reconnecting with an old friend.