Romanticized Bliss

The wedding day is not the marriage. I can plan a party. I can plan one with ease and thunder and flying Chinese fire lanterns. If someone else decides to help me pay for a party, I can figure out a budget to include fireworks. Big exploding bursts of joy to commemorate a day.

It’s only a day. I can plan a day. I can order a cake. I can make decorations. I can custom design floral arrangements. I can hire a make-up professional to make me look unlike my true self.

“But it ain’t me, babe
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.”

From the song “It Ain’t Me, Babe”

When the wedding is over, a bride will strip off her supposedly virgin white gown. She is no longer a bride but in the act of announcement and profession and finally consummation, she becomes a wife.

Mrs. I take his last name or I hyphenate.

I becomes “we.” Then the we becomes monotonous, monotoned, and routine. There are inside jokes to provide a subtle relief to the fact we are inching our way closer to death, growing old together.

We. We. We.

Becoming a we relinquishes a sole identity as one will speak common phrases:

“We plan on having kids.”

“We can’t make your party.”

“We are so important because there’s two of us.”

I’ve never conformed too well to the ‘we’. I wanted children. If I don’t show up to a party, it more than likely happened because of me. Parties make me anxious and I’m not going to make excuses that ‘we’ can’t be there because I have anxiety, or I got sick, or I just didn’t want to come.

I’m not important. I’m not better than a person walking next to me.

But it ain’t me, babe
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.

Becoming a bride is easy. There is a question, a bended knee, and a ring. Screaming the words: Yes, I love you. YES. YES. YES. Planning a party is fun. Celebrating a day and eating cake is tasty. Dressing up in your finest is an illusion. Hiding under layers of tulle and pounds of caked make-up is a necessity. People didn’t come to see the real couple. They came to see a dolled-up couple making promises and repeating words as instructed by a minister or a preacher.

Promises.

Promises.

Promises.

Sickness. Health. Richer. Poorer. Have. Hold. Till Death Do WE Part. 

Hardly any couple leaves the world together. There is no “we” in death. Death doesn’t do them part. It turns the “we” back into a “me”. Because marriage isn’t a fairytale dream with cake and professionals hired to iron out the wrinkles.

The marriage is the hard part. The waking up and learning every miniature detail, all the GOOD and the BAD. Accepting the person you married, and accepting you can’t change or save them. Fighting battles, some of these battles may be important and some are only ignorant rage filled moments of insanity. We can put our husband or wife before ourself, and eventually we forget who the me is. “We” consumes the “Me” and the “Me” begins bearing down looking for their soul again.

There is a first dance at a wedding. There are many dances, balancing acts, compromises, soul searching, laughter, and sadness which will follow a wedding day.

Weddings are a disillusion to an actual marriage. They are a day filled with help, fancy dresses, music, laughter, and ungodly overpriced event spaces. Marriages are usually housed in a small abode with a disproportionate lack of help. They’re propped up behind closed doors and many only see the happiness leaking out into the world.

Few know the truth…

Few accept the known truth…

Wedding days are happy. Marriages are long, hot days without air conditioning. They are investments where sometimes the consolation prize is your husband holding your hand and wiping away your tears. Or he stands beside you when you feel the loneliness in complete isolation. And he loves you when you don’t deserve to be loved.

I can romanticize many days in a life. I will not romanticize weddings.

Marriage deserves the adoration, not an over-idolized day with a fancy dress.

But it ain’t me, babe
No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.

marital

******

Wri-Ter

Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.

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4 thoughts on “Romanticized Bliss

  1. I love this!! I see too many couples losing their minds over the perfect wedding day but then failing to realize that marriage is not easy. It’s worth it when you’re with the right person, but it is definitely not without its challenges.

    Liked by 1 person

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