a moment of reflection
My first love got married on Sunday, and I was there, and really, not just there but standing about six feet away in a pink dress holding a bouquet, tears running down my face.
It was an interesting weekend. One thing that genuinely surprised me was this: I think I expected deep down to feel some jealousy or wistfulness accompanying the occasion, but that didn't actually happen at all.
In case you didn't know me at the time, my first love was somewhat epic (although only in my head), spanning about four years, echoing through my life for a few more. The crazy fucking thing is that we became best friends early on and remained best friends the entire time. I think that says a lot about her and how great she is that she put up with my nonsense, which was occasionally passive-aggressive in the extreme and always intense, if well-meaning.
But despite a level of unavoidable jealousy when she began dating someone--the man she would later marry--the truth is that I attempted to orchestrate the match (failing only because they had done it themselves) and encouraged it at every opportunity. The tears streaming on Sunday were out of real, genuine happiness for these two people who I loved.
God damn does that make me sound like a martyr. I Just Want My Beloved To Be Happy. I suppose the truth is that after what has felt like a lifetime of unrequited love I got cozy with it. Sometimes my romantic success, such as it is, still feels foreign and unreal to me. In fact, the part of me I mentioned above that was waiting for twinges is the same part that was a little let down I didn't get them. How poetic, to be a bridesmaid in love with the bride, suffering silently through a weekend of wedding preparations, heartbroken at her beauty and simultaneously touched and crushed every step of the way.
How poetic indeed. Chalk up another one on the list of times I got a little more mature by leaving that kind of thinking behind because the truth is that I gave an emotional toast to the bride and groom in front of a LOT of people, then danced the night away with my one and only (getting a dance with the groom and even a bit with the bride along the way). I drove the bride's car back to her mom's house, snuggled up to the love of my life, and got on the first plane--and I do mean first--the next day to go back to my life.
Sometimes I feel like my life is a series of leaving my attachment to "poetic" thinking behind.
It was an interesting weekend. One thing that genuinely surprised me was this: I think I expected deep down to feel some jealousy or wistfulness accompanying the occasion, but that didn't actually happen at all.
In case you didn't know me at the time, my first love was somewhat epic (although only in my head), spanning about four years, echoing through my life for a few more. The crazy fucking thing is that we became best friends early on and remained best friends the entire time. I think that says a lot about her and how great she is that she put up with my nonsense, which was occasionally passive-aggressive in the extreme and always intense, if well-meaning.
But despite a level of unavoidable jealousy when she began dating someone--the man she would later marry--the truth is that I attempted to orchestrate the match (failing only because they had done it themselves) and encouraged it at every opportunity. The tears streaming on Sunday were out of real, genuine happiness for these two people who I loved.
God damn does that make me sound like a martyr. I Just Want My Beloved To Be Happy. I suppose the truth is that after what has felt like a lifetime of unrequited love I got cozy with it. Sometimes my romantic success, such as it is, still feels foreign and unreal to me. In fact, the part of me I mentioned above that was waiting for twinges is the same part that was a little let down I didn't get them. How poetic, to be a bridesmaid in love with the bride, suffering silently through a weekend of wedding preparations, heartbroken at her beauty and simultaneously touched and crushed every step of the way.
How poetic indeed. Chalk up another one on the list of times I got a little more mature by leaving that kind of thinking behind because the truth is that I gave an emotional toast to the bride and groom in front of a LOT of people, then danced the night away with my one and only (getting a dance with the groom and even a bit with the bride along the way). I drove the bride's car back to her mom's house, snuggled up to the love of my life, and got on the first plane--and I do mean first--the next day to go back to my life.
Sometimes I feel like my life is a series of leaving my attachment to "poetic" thinking behind.