MRS.

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I don’t like weddings, and here I am dressed in white. With my bouquet in hands, I remember every time I had to be the ring girl, to be a bridesmaid, to understand I had to smile, to be nice, to enjoy a moment like the one I’m living now. I’m waiting for my entrance; the guests are excited, my aunt is crying. Thank God the music didn’t start yet; the very expensive wedding planner is holding me: I have to make them wait a little bit. I was ready 10 minutes ago. I want this to be over, jump fast to the ridiculous expensive party. Listen, I love my soon-to-be husband. I want to spend my life with him; I want to have kids and grow old on the countryside. I just can’t connect to the idea that a party, a priest, or a wedding dress that looks like an ugly, fattening cake is going to make me married. Weddings are contracts; and not a romantic one. We live together already; I have a beautiful house with pictures, furniture, and most importantly, love. I confess I got tired of people asking me all the time about the wedding; I’m not having this party because of them, but the family/friends pressure is a small reason for the thick ring to be placed on my left finger. I’m someone Mrs. now. I have to be strong for not molding myself into a briefcase my husband moves around. My identity has to remain intact. I can’t remember how many of my friends lost theirs at the honeymoon. Lame. I don’t. How funny it can be if I say no. The wedding planner is going to be devastated. She is more excited about all this than I am. I do. I’m about to be Mrs. It’s not the man of my dreams, but it’s the man I chose to be my partner. There are still very few of us who can choose who to be. I’m the bride. The guests are here to celebrate us. I’m happy. Still, I can’t stand this party.

 

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