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I dislike going to weddings, unless a member of my immediate family is engaged in the ring exchange.
I have become “that” woman, sitting at a table with seven other older singles: the never-married; the widows and occasional widower, and perhaps one like myself with the D word – divorced. Often, one is described as having “special challenges.” Usually by the man in the next seat. Sometimes he has wayward hands.
When I was a newlywed and attending many nuptials, I looked at those “aunts” with a degree of pity. They never danced. They sipped on diet colas or too many margaritas while their knees slowly spread with fatigue. Sometimes they nodded off as We are Family blared from the speakers.
But while I wasn’t looking, I joined their coterie.
It is an odd quirk, I suppose, to abhor weddings when I adore ardour. I grew up on romantic books and films. I have the idealized, Casablanca view of true love that only a child of a single mother could possess. As I never witnessed such love, I let my vivid imagination fill in the blanks.
Weddings equal infinite possibilities.
Like Oscar in Sweet Charity, I do cry at weddings – but that isn’t why I dislike them. Crying is not so bad in the right circumstances. When my friend’s daughter walked down the aisle, I stood up and hooted with joy. When another buddy’s daughter married during a hurricane, I took off my shoes and hurrah-ed in the mud. I also bawled. Like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, I didn’t remember their getting older.
But inside I felt lonely. Like Dinah in Starlight Express, I’d been U.N.C.O.U.P.L.E.D, a van without a man.
I have been told that I made my bed and must therefore lie in it. Our divorce was a mutual decision, which doesn’t translate into meaning I must always be happy. I often am. When I debated between infelicitous or forlorn, forlorn won. I think we are, in general – kids and ex included – more content. But nothing is perfect, and I feel that imperfection most acutely at marriage ceremonies.
I have chosen not to reattach. Opportunities have arisen and I’ve made a conscious decision not to go with them. Nice men in each case: intelligent, good-looking, even rich. But at my age, no one gets just the man. One gets his children, his grandchildren, his sisters, nieces, nephews, therapist, taste in art, wanderlust, peculiarities in bed, love of two-star hotels, slight misogyny, the occasional racist remark – and sometimes, Conservative leanings.
So I unglued myself on purpose and I remain steadfast in that position.
But now at weddings there’s no one to tell that the dress with the peacock feathers is really over the top. No one to ask: “What exactly is in this hors d’oeuvre?” No one to sit with as the wedding procession begins and I remember my own, our mothers resplendent in purple, my big brother at my side.
“Everyone join us on the dance floor!” the DJ says. Awkward. There are a few choices: Join the lady swaying to her own music, eyes closed – she won’t even notice I’m there; snatch the slack-jawed man beside me and make a dash; grab random hands and do the tarantella, dabke, sirtaki, merengue or some other group dance; discover a new interest in cartography, as that’s where the table discussion is at; sit quietly, hands folded, and stare intently at the remaining salad; admire the bride. Maintain dignity. Do not cry.
More than half of marriages end in divorce. It happens in the best families and to good people. Who was a better person than Nelson Mandela? Nicholas Sparks, author of The Notebook, split with his wife. Ellen Fein, who wrote The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right, discovered she was living with Mr. Wrong. Maya Angelou. Charlemagne. Rumours are circulating about Homer and Marge Simpson. Even the term “happy ending” has taken on a new meaning.
It’s true, I chose my destiny of growing old alone, if alone means not having a specific partner with whom one has sex. It’s been almost 16 years. Some days, I miss waking up with someone’s head on my pillow; other days I’m intensely grateful to be in bed alone. On Mondays, I might regret the dinner for one, while on Tuesday I’m thrilled with my single plate.
It is 2016, but some folks still look at me as if I did something seriously wrong to be in this situation. Or worse, that I haven’t chosen to rectify it somehow. My biggest regret, without question, is the harm the split did to our children. I have to assume there was some. Analyzing this part leads to complete paralysis. Better to go forward. Also, no choice.
I cry at weddings for what might be, for what might have been. For the couple, for their parents, for me, for my own parents. For hope and optimism, for shame and disappointment, for guilt, for consequences, for the dazzling dress the mother-of-the bride is wearing. For love received, given and lost. I weep for loneliness, for choice, for bravery, for false beliefs, expectations and the look in the couple’s eyes. For sweetheart-words, for endless yearning. I cry for all that is unnameable.
I do despise sitting at that table.
Virginia Fisher Yaffe lives in Montreal.