Years ago, when I was waiting tables and living deep in Brooklyn with two cats that drove me nuts and a man who would have if he had been around more, I found myself, one Saturday afternoon in Staten Island, at a wedding shower. It horrified me. It was one of those events where we made veils out of toilet paper. A “Wishing Well” sat in the center of the room, and we tossed in batteries and Ajax and measuring cups–all things a woman needs to prepare for a lifetime of love.But before the shower, before I had any idea of how it would unfold, I had walked to the store to get ingredients for my mother’s famous artichoke dip. (Think mayonnaise, cheese, baking till bubbly; try not to die of a heart attack).
It was a fairly quiet neighborhood, and I remember being very warm, and then suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to keep walking, walk straight to the ferry, board it, take it across the river, get on the subway, go to Port Authority and climb on a Greyhound where, hopefully, I’d get a window-seat near the back, and there’d be a dog-eared copy of a book I’d been longing to read. I would go to Wyoming and never be found again.
Ultimately I decided this would be very rude for me to do to the bride, and so, the afternoon proceeded: I sipped sherbet punch out of a plastic cup and oohed and aahed over monogrammed towels as I attached bows to a paper plate to fashion a bouquet.
I guess I write all of this today because I’m glad my Greyhound fantasies are a thing of the past. It feels good to wake up beside a man I love in a home I love, and frankly, considering my recent preoccupation with all things wedding, it’s only a matter of time before I find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing saying “I do,” as I rearrange the long train of toilet paper so it will cascade just-so from my curious up-do. Bring on the wishing well!