I was never a tomboy but not really a girlie girl either. Even in high school when a couple of my friends hauled out the brides magazines, I’d just be thinking, “Oh my God, don’t you have a thesis on fruit flies or a phone book we could read?” I don’t think I imagined then that I wouldn’t get married, I just didn’t care about white frilly dresses and china patterns.
College led to being both a hippie and a feminist so I was happy to fall in with the belief that you could live together without needing the piece of paper. In a turnabout from the usual, the serious boyfriend of my 20’s wanted to get married. When he finally talked me into that, on my condition that we could just elope, he was disappointed and started trying to convince me to turn no wedding into a big wedding. I finally agreed but with no excitement at planning the big hoorah.
We split up before we got to the wedding and a few years later, when I finally had thoughts of settling down, the long years of illness set in and I couldn’t work up much interest in dating let alone husband hunting. Once I embarked on the journey (see my other blog) I also recognized that generally (that serious boyfriend was the one exception) I became a different—and slightly crazy—person as soon as a man came into my life. I finally decided that getting well was all I could handle.
Over the years the scale of weddings seems to have become ever more grandiose. And I still scratch my head and wonder what the attraction is and why people want to spend enough money to buy a house or feed a thousand hungry people for a few years to have one stressed-out day. I realize many women think of the day as some kind of fairy tale, which I suspect contributes to the high rate of disappointments in actual married life. But I don’t look good in white and the rest of it seems like a big pain in the neck, so it’s one fairy tale that’s not in my dreams. Am I missing a gene?