It wasn’t the walk up the aisle that made me nervous.
I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Standing beside him and holding his hand felt comfortable and easy; it gave me a chance to search the room for the face I’d been longing to see.
I told her that when I saw her I might leap from the alter and bear hug her.
I asked her several times to walk me up the aisle.
(I was only half kidding)
I saw her husband first, his long neck stretching far above the crowd, like a periscope, and his shirt matching perfectly with my decor.
I appreciated him immediately.
Her head was blocked by big hair and a smile belonging to someone I couldn’t place because I was bobbing, trying to find her face.
And then there she was.
The woman who had pulled me out of the shitstorm I had found myself in after the birth of my daughter.
The beautiful writer I looked up to who was going through the same thing I was, but still had time to send me hilarious texts, peen-cock cards she scrapbooked herself, and pictures of monkeys wearing thongs.
She was real.
And she was waving like a loon while her husband mouthed the words “asshole.”
I couldn’t have been happier.