I have to admit that when I got an invitation to Jilli Nel’s wedding I did not want to attend.
My life had plunged itself straight into the murkiness of hell. I had already avoided two weddings, and had no desire to drag myself to this one. But Jilli Nel had done nothing to harm me. She and her fiance Chris Myers deserved my respect, and had requested the honor of my presence.
The week before the event, I visited my sister. I have to go to a damn wedding, I muttered. I feel old, fat, and ugly. Other than to work, and to cry over a salad at Panera’s, I haven’t been out in public in two years. I’m too depressed to think about somebody else’s happiness.
My sister put her arms around me. She said, Do you have something pretty to wear?
That’s my big sister. She knows. We all learned that from our mother. Feeling blue? Wash your face, comb your hair, and put on something pretty.
Joyce loaded me in her car and we went to Kohl’s. She pulled a bunch of clothes off of a rack and bustled me into the dressing room. I peeled my clothes from my body and slipped into what she handed me without enthusiasm. I stood in front of the mirror.
When I first “got separated” (I despise that phrase), I stopped eating for about three months. I dropped below 95 pounds before my doctor mentioned anti-depressants. So I started force-feeding myself. By the time Jilli’s wedding came around, I had, unfortunately, overdone the “you’ve got to put on a few pounds” instructions and had crept far above the double zero where I’d been hovering. Still a size small, but to my eyes, I looked hideous.
Joyce disagreed. Oh, you look great! she crowed. She guided me to picking a blue, ankle length cotton thing which at least didn’t show any cleavage. She hugged me again, slipped a blouse into my cart, used her own Kohl bucks to pay for everything, and settled me in the car for my trip back to Kansas City.
I sat with Genevieve and Wes Casey at the wedding and distracted myself by taking photos of one of the more lovely brides I’ve ever seen, glowing and radiant. When Chris took his jacket off to cover his shivering lady, everyone present gasped. Did you see that? Such tenderness!
Today I saw a little netting packet in the dashboard change holder. I touched it; realizing what it was, I found myself smiling. Another year has gone by. I’ve gotten divorced. I’ve lived alone now for three long and brutal years; and I’ve also watched Jilli and Chris prove to the world that their devotion can surmount all challenges.
As I pulled out of the driveway thinking about Jilli, a man stopped in front of my house and got out of his car. I rolled down the window and asked if I could help him. He gestured to a pile of cardboard at the base of my neighbor’s tree.
Are these your boxes, he asked. I told him no, but that they’d been in the recycle bin and had gotten left behind by the city drivers. Do you think they’d mind if I picked through them? I shook my head.
The man grinned. I’ll tell you why I need them. I’m moving my girlfriend here from Colorado Springs. He paused to accept my congratulations. I’ll tell you a story, he continued. We dated when I was sixteen and she was fourteen. Then we went our separate ways. We found each other again after 46 years.
He beamed from ear to ear, this portly man with a graying beard and grease stains on his fingers. I wished him well and continued out to the street. An unexpected feeling of goodwill settled over me. Another smile dawned on my face as I turned on the radio and accelerated into the turn, on my way south.
It’s evening on the ninth day of the forty-third month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
