This post originally appeared in somewhat different form at PerverseCowgirl. Republished here with permission.
My boyfriend Minx and I recently attended his friend’s wedding.
Before I got married, I’d sit through weddings twitching with boredom and making sarcastic comments under my breath (NB: I was young and incredibly cynical). After I got married, and against all odds…I suddenly became a cryer. I think at first my tears were out of happiness for the couple: it did—and still does—seem wondrous that two people could want to spend their entire lives together. But over the years, as the state of my own marriage slowly deteriorated, the motivation behind my wedding tears kinda…changed. Occam’s Razor would seem to dictate that my later crying jags were of an “OMG this couple is doomed to a life of sexless antagonism” nature.
At any rate, I optimistically figured that my tendency toward wedding tears would have evaporated now that I’m no longer unhappily married myself, and I went into Minx’s friend’s wedding without any Kleenex. And my face dissolved into salt water the moment the ceremony started. Huge, undignified sobs and copious amounts of snot. I tried to repress it because I didn’t want anyone to notice (I’d only met the groom once, for Pete’s sake! I didn’t know the bride at all! There was no socially acceptable excuse for my behaviour!), but I shook violently and made strangled gulping noises and had to keep surreptitiously wiping my nose on my sleeve.
Minx, because he is awesome, petted my back throughout the ceremony and never demanded that I explain my emotional state—he figured I’d share when I was good and ready. And, amazingly enough, I was ready by the time the ceremony had ended. I’d finally figured it out.
I don’t cry at weddings out of happiness or fatalism. I cry because the feeling of powerlessness stresses me out.
Imagine that you’re at the circus, and a high-wire act begins. A little kid (or puppy or kitten, if you’d prefer) has begun to walk a tightrope without a net, so far above the ground that a fall would mean certain death. Oddly, the toddler/kitten/puppy seems to have no idea what danger they’re in; they’re walking along the rope quite carelessly, and frequently teeter and flail and just barely catch their balance again. Would you be worried about the toddler/kitten/puppy? Would you find yourself holding your breath and clenching your fists and kind of willing everything to work out as hard as you can?
Well, maybe you wouldn’t. But I would. And that tightrope scenario is exactly the same feeling I get from attending a wedding. The couple stands there blithely making these huge, sweeping promises and commitments that they may not be able to keep, and they have a long way to fall: “til death do us part” is a long fucking time, and divorce is goddamned crushing and makes you feel like a colossal failure. So I’m sitting there thinking “Please understand what you’re getting into. Please be good to each other, and practice open communication, and never take each other for granted. Please don’t fuck this up. Please don’t fall.” And it’s like I can simultaneously feel the couple’s optimism and see a possible future in which they’ve grown to hate each other, and the cognitive dissonance rips my mind in half and I start bawling my eyes out.
This particular wedding triggered more cognitive dissonance for me than most: Minx had met the groom when they were both kids in the same Christian youth group, and while I’m not against religion as a concept, I know from Minx that this specific group of Christians is sheltered, closed-minded, and judgemental. And yet…the church had a feeling of warmth and community. Warmth and community that the bride and groom had grown up in and felt secure in, but which in fact would be withdrawn in a flash if they made one wrong move. Warmth and community based less on commonalities than on ignorance and a feeling of smug superiority. And so, sitting next to Minx in that sturdy wood pew, bathed in a feeling of acceptance that I knew was slippery and treacherous underneath, I sobbed even harder.
Yeah, I know. You can’t take me anywhere.
The next time I go to a wedding, I’m going to act pleasant but detached. I’m going to sternly remind myself that every couple needs to fight their own battles and make their own mistakes. I’m going to stop trying to manipulate the future with the power of my mind.
And in case that doesn’t work, I’m going to stock up on tissues ahead of time—or at least wear a top with more absorbent sleeves.
PerverseCowgirl is a visual artist, a feminist, a divorcee, and a pervert—not necessarily in that order. Read her opinionated bitchery and lascivious ramblings at http://perversecowgirl.
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