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No.
No, I did not catch the bouquet tonight. Nor did I cry when Robyn and
Dave warbled their vows. Or when Father What's-His-Face announced,
"I now present Mr. and Mrs. David Corrigan."
And do you know why? Do you know why? Because for months now I
have been inundated by the entire concept of Mr. and Mrs. David
Corrigan. I have spent enough money to buy a small country, and all I
have to show for it is a hideously garish pink taffeta dress that I will
never wear again, and my best silk pumps that are now dyed the exact
same hue of Flamingo Fuschia. Then of course was the bridal shower.
Grown women assembled to worship a wishing well--ooh--and ogle
Tupperware--aah. Bridal showers are the sole reason that there will
never be a woman in the White House!
No. No, I am not bitter. If I wanted do the whole blushing bride
thing I would have. Really. Randy and I just weren't...I don't know,
suited. We were so young; I probably would've wound up cracking a whole
lot sooner. He was bad with money, he couldn't dance, he chewed with his
mouth open. And you know what I really couldn't stand? Whenever
something even slightly out of the ordinary happened--a home run in a
baseball game on T.V., a car engine backfiring, he would invariably
quote a cheesy 80s movie. Like the time we saw Old Man Peabody next door
go after Mr. Swineford with his cane. He actually turned to me and said,
"Yippee-kai-yay, motherfucker."
No. No, I hear he's married now. To Kellie Pinella. Yeah, the same
girl from high school. She was always, I don't know, that kind of girl.
The kind of girl who was a Brownie, who got invited to everybody's
birthday party, who never got caught staring into space. Cute.
Agreeable. Loves the color pink.
No. No, he never understood why I wanted to go to California.
"Why do you have to go clear across the country to feel fulfilled?
What the hell does that mean anyway? Why can't you just be normal? Why
can't we be normal?" He always made me feel like shit when he said
things like that.
There's a kid, too, you know. Everyone in this shit small town
just loves to update me every time they see him, or talk to him. I
don’t know why. Well, I do know why. It’s like pouring salt on a
slug. You feel like a vicious asshole doing it, but at the same time you
can’t help but watch to see what happens. It’s like I’ve taken
this sort of strange glow about me since last year. I have a big scarlet
C stamped across my forehead. I am a large pink elephant.
She's
two now, the kid. Her name's Sunny. Sunny Bella. He always liked those
weirdo names. Like the time we found this sick cat in the backyard. I,
of course, refused to have anything to do with it, but you know Randy.
He fixed this little bed for it, went to the little deli on the corner
and bought it cream, the whole nine yards. We wound up keeping it, and
you know what he insisted on calling it? Apollonia. I know. After that
girl in The Godfather. No, the one Michael ditches Kay for and marries
in Italy. She gets blown up in the car.
No. No, I didn't bring a date. Who would I bring, Peter from the
office? He’s either stiflingly boring or intolerably lecherous. All
the guy does is talk about numbers. Then he gets a glass of wine in him
and gets handsy and I flip out and have to call Doctor Hammond. I’m
actually not seeing him quite as often anymore.
No. No,
I don’t mean Peter. I mean Doctor Hammond. Because he thinks I’m
ready. He thinks I’ve made significant progress since last year and so
do I. Of course I’m telling the truth. What reason do I have to lie?
We both know I’m not getting any younger.
No. No,
I didn’t dance. I don’t know how to. I sat and watched everyone
else.
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