Married at 19 Means Missing Everything

When a dear friend of my childhood got married on a sultry summer evening, a good portion of the congregation was crying. Her mother, my mother and the women who were either reminiscing about, or looking forward to, their own wedding days. All of the bridesmaids were sniffling as well, with the exception of the 5-year-old flower girl and me--although I came close.

I was definitely not on the verge of weeping for joy. From the loss of my romantic illusions, maybe, or a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. She was 19 and her groom 23. While the minister was talking about rings and fidelity, I was trying to imagine the rest of her life.

When I’m at bars and parties, she and hubby probably will be sitting in front of the television talking about life insurance. When I’m in grad school, they’ll be planning the arrival of their first child. Is that a picture of true love? When I’m dating four guys at once, she’ll be having sedate dinners with the same person for years and years. And years.

To me, it sounds less than thrilling.

There’s nothing wrong with marriage. I have great respect for the institution. I believe that once a couple truly falls in love, then it becomes the logical next step. But when you’re 19, what do you know about falling in love? I’m 20, and I don’t think I’d recognize the real thing if it crawled into bed with me one night.

What if her true soulmate is out there somewhere and she misses him because she settled down too soon?

Of course, maybe her husband is her soulmate. But at her bachelorette party, which took place at a bar a week before the wedding, she said, “He’s totally not my type, but I love him anyway.”

They are also as comfortable around each other as if they’d been attached for years. I’ve always thought of love as a sweeping emotion that will let me know that he’s The One. But what if I’m wrong? What if love is only this comfy relationship involving some guy with a small paunch and a receding hairline?

I remember my parents’ story of how they got married. They were “drinking buddies”--my mother’s term--for about three years. She was a flight attendant, he was a sales rep. From what I can tell, they casually decided to get married. No fanfare, no excitement, not even an engagement ring. They can’t even remember which of them proposed. They scheduled their wedding for the time of year they wanted to be in Hawaii.

Is this going to be my life, too? Am I going to end up spending the rest of my life with a “buddy”? Since my parents have been together for 23 years, they must have done something right.

In another few years, will it be me casting a bunch of flowers into a sea of waiting hands, then watching much of the festivities indulgently from the sidelines? Standing beside a man who is more friend than lover? Is the marriage nothing more than those loafers I still won’t get rid of? A devastating thought.

Maybe I’m too young to appreciate an easy kind of relationship. I prefer to believe that I’ll find the love of my life. When I do, I won’t be accepting congratulations from the sidelines. I’ll be eating caviar in the moonlight. Whirling around in the center of the dance floor. Drinking champagne and wearing holes in the satin slippers that replaced those loafers I finally gave to the Goodwill.