I’ve been meaning to share this: Three Saturdays ago, I had my first wedding dream! I’ve been waiting (patiently) to have these ‘wedding dreams,’ because I feel it’s a necessary initiation of sorts to become a member of the ‘bride cliché’… which, let’s be honest, is almost like it is its own sorority or something. Since being engaged, I’ve had a couple strange dreams I don’t remember… but they obviously dealt with our wedding. For instance, I went to work one day and the first thing my fiance says to me is, “Why’d ya call last night? And what did your text mean? I don’t get it.” Called? Texted? I… didn’t… know I had. In fact, I swore I hadn’t… and was so convinced, I consulted my phone’s call history log. Sure enough, there was call proof. “Well… I faintly remember calling… but I think I hung up because I realized you would be sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you… and I faintly remember texting… Actually… I’m pretty sure I was sleeping when I texted because my hand skills were not there at all. I kept having to correct what I was texting because it wasn’t forming words.” But what did I want to say? I again did phone research, and there was the text in question: “Omg I think I was sleep walking… I didn’t mean to call… wanted to say we were ok wout some big items on list”. First, really?! Did I really text my fiance this?! Have I lost my mind? …The answer: Yes. I wasn’t sleepwalking. Nope… I was sleepcalling and sleeptexting… which for some odd reason, seems much more embarrassing. Second, what my message means, I can only guess… See, I went to sleep that night stressed about our wedding registry (big surprise?). I feel bad because I believe I have more items on our list than James… and my items are big priced items:
… so I guuuess I felt guilty and wanted James to know I was taking some of those high-priced items off our list…?… I guess? I, though, have no recollection of this.
Alas, five days after this, I do in fact have my first wedding dream:
James and I are at a funeral in my family’s church. It’s a funeral for Tiffany’s fiance. (Odd how dreams work… Tiffany and I used to competitively cheer together during high school… which was… what?… about 13 years ago. Sadly, I haven’t talked to her since, but I know she’s happily married and has been for a while.) Tiffany’s fiance had just died at the age of 14 in a motorcycle accident. (I believe this tidbit came from this past weekend: I attend a bridal shower for James’ sister [which Sidenote: was at the most ritzy hotel in the area — The Jefferson. I say this because the location of my dream will shortly move there. End Sidenote.] Well before we went to the Jefferson though, James’ family showed me pictures of him as a little boy… and in the album was a picture of another boy named Andy. Andy, I learned, was James’ cousin who passed at a young age after a motorcycle accident. I suppose his picture weighed more heavily in my mind than I realized…)
James disappears from the funeral, and I’m in my parents house. My mom is cooking in the kitchen, preparing dinner… while, my dad sits in the living room, chatting with James’ Uncle Tom and Aunt Ann (who, by the way, have never met my family). “I need to excuse myself,” I announce to everyone. “I have to try on my wedding dress; it just came in for my the first fitting!” so I run downstairs… and magically appear inside The Jefferson.
I’m in a bathroom at the hotel now, and it must be the men’s restroom because I notice two men — one, behind me with his back to me; the another is perpendicular to the right of me. He’s has dark brown hair, slicked-back on his head… and a matching dark brown mustache, barely curling up on the edges like this:
I notice he’s looking at me… staring in this evil sort of way. I know if I take my eyes off him, something bad will happen to me… so I keep looking from my reflection of me in the wedding dress… to him… me… to him… back to the wedding dress.
That’s when I realize the reason I didn’t like the dress is because it’s on backwards! I attempt to turn it around by unzipping a huge shiny, silver zipper that’s down my breast bone past my bellybutton… until I see the man has stopped touching his mustache and is now blatantly staring at me. I stop unzipping my dress and determine to adjust it out of the bathroom. In the middle of the hall, I turn my dress around and face the mirrors again. Finally I realize it’s my dress. I’m ecstatic, because it looks beautiful… so I go to return to my parent’s house… when I pass a different men’s restroom…
There’s a long line leading into it — so long people are waiting outside, holding open the restroom door. In line, I see Ben (one of the photographers I work with)! What a pleasant surprise! I begin yelling and running toward him, “Ben! Ben! Ben! It’s me!!!” but he goes inside… forcing me to stand directly in front of the restroom. “BEN!,” I scream. “It’s me! Ben! BENNN!!! To my relief, Mike (a manager at my station) peeks around the door, then passes along my message, “Hey Ben — Laura wants you.” Finally, Ben comes into the hall. He’s dressed in a nice suit (because he’s going to James’ and my wedding), and he gives me a huge hug… which lifts me off my feet. I soar into the air, laughing, because Ben is about 11 feet tall. “Thank you so much for coming,” I say. “Of course, Morris,” he replies and puts me down. At this point, I see my photographer running frantically down the hall… which agitates me because he missed the shot of me with a good friend. “Ben, can you lift me again so my photographer can get the picture?” Ben obliges… and we fly 11 feet into the air again, laughing and smiling… while the clicking of the camera signals the flash to go off around us. After he puts me down, I thank him one last time… and he goes back into the restroom.
I’m now walking back down the hall when I realize it’s time for James’ and my rehearsal, so I scramble into our church (which, like my parent’s house, is attached to The Jefferson). With outstretched arms, carrying an imaginary bouquet, I walk down the hall singing “dun dun dun-duaaa; dun dun dun-duaaaa” in my head. Finally, I reach the pulpit and turn. Lori (a girl I went to school with many years ago) and Tiffany are in the pews. I’m so happy they came to our wedding… but OH NO!!! It dawns on me that I don’t have my make-up or fake eyelashes on for the ceremony! I rush out of the church… when suddenly, I bump into Lori. We hug, and I thank her for coming… then I continue down the hall… until I bump into Tiffany. We also hug, and I tell her that out of everyone here, it means the most she came (given her situation). At that, we both walk back toward the church. Tiffany’s eyes are brimming with tears, and I apologize that she’s lost her fiance. She smiles sweetly and — with so much honesty — says, “Thank you.” As we walk, she talks about the motorcycle crash and I listen… until we arrive at the church door. There, she whispers, “You have a wedding to go to! I’m sorry I’m so negative on your day! Remember: Always, always love him.” I smile and am heartbroken, because that’s the best advice I’ve heard all day. I thank her again… and she disappears inside the church.
With time left to spare before James’ and my ceremony, I decide to find my make-up and fake eyelashes… but miraculously, my mom and sister appear, carrying an itty-bitty make-up bag… which my mom unzips and displays not only my make-up… but also the eye lashes! They both giggle, knowing that one of the jobs of Mother of the Bride and Maid of Honor is to remember things I overlook. I rush to the restroom to apply them… when I pass the hall mirrors, only to see a sash I’m wearing around my waist has fallen past my hips. This stresses me so I ask my mom, “Could you please retie my sash on my waist? It keeps falling down…” My mom answers, “Yes; of course!” and instantly works to undo the knot in the back.
As she does this, I’m looking at our reflection in the mirror… when I suddenly realize… this is all a dream. “Mama…,” I say. “I think I’m dreaming…” She laughs and replies — with so much excitement, “You’re not dreaming! Honey!!! You’re about to get married!!!” Yes. Yes, I am! …I encourage myself… and smile at our reflections… but I can’t move past the sadness because, in my heart, I know she is wrong. So, as if to feel pain from a pinch to test a dream, I say to her, “Tie it tight… so tight I can barely breathe. That way, I’ll know it’s my wedding day. If you tie it tight, I will know I am not dreaming.” She continues messing with the sash. “Yes, honey. I’ll tie it tight.”
Then… I know I have to wake up…
…and the once bright room… is now pitched black.
It was all just a dream… and I start to cry.