Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. – Kahlil Gibran
Guess what? I’m getting married this week!
I know I know. You’re confused because I already call Hubby my Hubby. It’s just a moniker I use for privacy’s sake (is my name even really Sonya!? Yes, yes it is), but he will officially be my hubby by the end of the week.
We’re having an intimate gathering in the mountains and I couldn’t be more excited. I understand it’s not the traditional way of things and it’s been kind of strange brushing off people’s disappointment… “Oh, you’re having a small wedding? Well, that’s OK too.” but it’s the only way I can imagine it happening.
I fall into that special camp of women that couldn’t give two shits about dress shape or flower arrangements or hors d’oeuvre choices. People find it shocking that I honestly never planned a “dream wedding” as a little girl.
I guess that’s something you do with a mom, but mine wasn’t around.
Come to think of it, I can’t say I dreamed about marriage much at all growing up. Maybe that’s the result of watching your father marry and divorce twice before you reach your teens. Maybe it’s the result of multiple step mothers telling you you’re a small, worthless girl with no potential. And a good slap for reinforcement.
Suffice to say that weddings, marriage, and strangely, divorce, all lost their charm a long, long time ago.
And I’m sad about that. Real sad. I wish I didn’t have all this shitty fucking life experience under my belt. But I do.
I wish I had a loving, dedicated mother to help me plan a big, delightful wedding. But I don’t. I wish I had a father who wanted to walk me down the aisle instead of shun me. But I don’t.
But somehow Hubby wants to marry me in spite of it all. Or maybe because of it.
And that, ladies and gentleman, must be love.