The Truth.

For four hours today, I sat by the pool with my friend Sarah and her parents, and really relaxed for the first time in weeks. As I've mentioned before, Sarah is a friend from my past life at Middlebury, where we were altos in the same a cappella group. We reconnected last fall, and very gradually, over the last six months or so, we've fallen back into our friendship.

So as we laid together reading by the pool, occasionally getting in the water to cool off, the conversation turned to the wedding. And for the first time, I spoke honestly about it: I admitted to Sarah that the wedding wasn't perfect. I told her that in retrospect, there are many things I would have done differently, and several things that I wish had happened differently (or not happened at all). I told her that it still made me sick to my stomach to remember certain details of the day that just didn't go well--that I wish that I had had the wedding during the day, that my hairdresser cut my hair too short three weeks before the wedding, that my maid of honor backed out of doing my hair an hour before the rehearsal, that a bridesmaid had fallen in the pool at the reception. etc. etc. etc. Sarah listened patiently as I unloaded my anxiety, pouring out detail upon imperfect detail about the day, and explaining how strange and disconnected (depressed lite) I'd felt since the wedding was over.

The conversation ended there, and we climbed out of the water and back onto our toweled chairs, letting our bodies soak up the sunlight. We had dinner, lingered over sorbet with fresh raspberries, and I got in the car to head back to Bryn Mawr. As I was driving, I realized that I had finally told the truth. I had admitted to a living, breathing human being that I did not have a perfect wedding. That, fancy dresses aside, it still seemed like just another day. Life with Preston and Callie feels exactly the same. Just with nicer kitchen appliances. I admitted that, as much as I complained and stressed about this wedding to everyone who would give me an ear, I was sad that it was over (and thanks to Abigail, I know I'm not alone).

I know that I promised wedding posts. I know that I promised myself a wedding scrapbook. But I just can't yet. The wounds are still open, and I find myself still obsessing over the tiny details of the day that didn't go perfectly, exactly to plan. I need some perspective, and, depending on how I feel when we get back from our honeymoon, some therapy. I need to leave all of my wedding remains boxed up in the closet, where they are now. Eventually, when my brain and soul have settled back into health and happiness, I hope that I'll be able to look at the pieces of the weekend and see them for what they really are: remnants of a joyful occasion, a beautiful beginning, and a celebration with friends. I'm just not there yet.