Today I shall become what I hate most.  Today I will walk down the shortest of paths to meet my destiny, to find a purpose I never thought could be mine.  I wear white as though to purify myself against the corruption of the institution of marriage.  I should be wearing red.  How could anything called an institution be pure?  And I'm no purer than anyone else is.

    Why am I doing this to myself?

    Because I said yes.  How could I have said no when he was down on one knee, eyes shining?  He was so proud of himself, so happy, so romantic.  I couldn't bear to say no.  And why would I?  I love him, after all.  I really do.

    I always vowed that if I ever married, it would only be under the circumstances of purely intoxicating love, the kind of love that engulfs you.  I promised myself that I would mate for life.  But now, as I stand here, waiting to walk down that aisle, I know such promises are foolish.  How can one promise such a thing?  Life is full of so many uncertainties.  I have no way of knowing what lies ahead of me.  Of course, when I say my vows I will mean them, but ten years from now, will I still mean them?  Will those vows still have the same meaning?

    This is so much more than a ceremony, but oddly, it's the ceremony that most people get caught up in.  There is a certain mania that goes with planning something of this size and elegance.  Too many plans.  I hated making all of those stupid decisions.  I let my mother do a lot of it.  I numbly picked out a few things on my own, but I was too weighed down with anxiety to do much more than that.  I wish I could have been more cheerful about it, I mean, after all, this is a big deal.  I'm getting married!  This is what most girls dream about.  This is the life goal of so many women.  And here I am, a disgrace to my own sex because I cannot muster up much enthusiasm over a ceremony that should mean so much more than it actually does.

    My mother promised me that this would be a wedding like "every little girl dreamt of."  The only problem is that I'm not a little girl.  I'm a 26 year old woman.  And this Barbie doll wedding doesn't really suit me.

    I begin to pace, listening to the clip-clop of my uncomfortable white, heeled shoes.  I study the beams of the church ceiling while I pace.  I wanted to get married outside.  I don't know who talked me out of that.  I didn't want a white dress, either.  But somehow, I am dressed in this terrible snow-colored taffeta thing.  So many things happen when you submit to indifference and let other people decide things for you.

    The veil is worse than the dress.  I can't wait to take it off.  It itches terribly, and the hairpins used to keep it in place are hurting me.  I don't dare to try and adjust them, with my luck my hair would become disheveled.  I'm a bride; I should look beautiful.

    My mother sneaks out of the sanctuary.  There are lines of disapproval etched on her face.  I am used to that.  My mother doesn't like Adam.  She doesn't like the fact that we're going to live like paupers because neither of us have extremely high-paying jobs.  And after this huge, lavish wedding she planned and paid for, we cannot afford a honeymoon.  She steps towards me, adjusting my veil.  Right now, I am trying so hard to make sense of what I am doing, that I cannot bear her touch.  The nervous fluttering of her hands irk me.  I stop her before she can try to give me a spit-bath as though I was still four years old.

    "Are you nervous?" She asks me.  What she really means is that there's still time to back out and marry a physicist named Harold who has a Ph.D., makes $100K a year, looks like a Ken doll and has a house with a white picket fence.

    I shrug and say, "maybe just a little," as though she was offering me a refill on coffee or something.  I cannot give her the satisfaction my fear and dread would bring.

    My father interrupts us.  It's time.  My heart is pounding loudly, so loudly that I can hear it.  I hope no one else can.  My mother tries to smile as she slips back into the church sanctuary.  I can hear the organ playing.  I hate organ music.  I try not to think about that, so I take a deep breath and grip my father's arm.  I fancy I can see my whole life flashing before me.  It's hard to breathe.

    But Adam is standing at the other end of that church, beaming like a beacon of light from a lighthouse.  I know I have to follow through with this.  I have to make it there for his sake.  My steps feel so heavy.  I keep my eyes focused in him, if I look at the seas of faces to my sides, I will waver.

    It seems like an eternity before I reach him.  My hands are clammy as I clasp his tightly.  I search his face anxiously.  I have never seem him looking happier.  His face mirrors none of the neurotic paranoia I am feeling.  I want to ask him why?  Why do you want to marry me?  How can you be so sure?

    The way he looks at me, so tenderly, so full of hope, it zaps me.  I can feel some of my resistance failing.  I am succumbing to that horrible thing that mellows strong, independent women.  It softens the blow of surrender, for sure, as I repeat, "to love, honor and obey, 'Till death do us part."  I say the vows and mean them, but still don't know if I'll be able to keep them.  The surrender is punctuated with a kiss.

    I feel rather numb, and queasy.  I have to wonder, is this what it feels like to be a wife, instead of just a woman?