Wanted

Couples are getting hitched. It seems so persistent a truth, and one that never cedes because maybe it’s just my present. Marriages are looming. I attend, subconsciously placing myself in lieu of the bride. Tonight just happens to be the season premiere of the reality show ‘Say Yes to the Dress’ and it is hitting me hard that I am not her. The bride in these weddings and formal engagements - a blending of two families formally as opposed to the get-down-on-one-knee affairs - Are draped with a lovely red embroidered shawl. They are presented with semiprecious stones, jewels, and luster. They glow. They’re eyelids drawn almost closed, their heads bowed down, partially to teeter the cloth upon their head so that it stays, partially to stare down at their new trousseau, and partially in thanks. They’re eyelids suddenly flicker open, full, and bright, they look on yonder- beyond all the hullabaloo. They are the center of their universe. I am their spectator.

I hear my father’s breathing falter a bit as we observe that young woman on stage become a bride. It should have been me. I feel my mother’s acceptance as she sits quietly, pushing out of her mind the possibility of her own daughter’s marriage. I am self-aware: simultaneously feeling deeply hurt and possessing juvenile angst, embraced by the buoyant energy in the air that is at odds with the otherwise heavy, ornate garments.

‘’When’ I attended a wedding recently, there was the ‘what’: the anticipation of getting ready for all the events- laying out the clothes, shoes, jewelry. The ‘who’ we would be seeing - old and new. The ‘where’ we would travel to and stay while waiting for events that started hours after the previous one. It was an entire to-do, this wedding. After the longest time, I, depressed, still unemployed and still stuck in my eating disorder, got dressed up, mingled, spoke, and had something to look forward to day after day. I felt like I was getting betrothed. And now that it’s over, reality settles in once more. Again, I am isolated, again, refreshing my email every three seconds in anticipation of a job offer, again, crying my eyes out during and after therapy when I relayed this truth of mine. 

It’s like Lorelei Gilmore from Gilmore Girls says - my go-to pop-cultural anecdotal evidence - “every now and then, just for a moment I wish I had a partner, someone to pick up the slack, someone to wait for the cable guy, make me coffee in the morning.” Marriage is more than intimacy is what everyone relays to me. It’s a hug, a peck on the face, and a holding of the hand. Marriage is a barrage of family expectations and cultural norms. And yet I fear it. I fear it and I also want it. I want the celebration of a wedding to be a daily memory. I want photo albums that my parents never possessed, and a dress that my mother never had. I wanted all this for them, too, and yet I have never been on a date much less been in a relationship.

To be wanted has a sense of urgency; doing certain tasks and sometimes going to any lengths in order to retrieve that which is desired. Then again, not everyone gets what he/she wants. This is my case scenario. I feel unwanted, and yet everyone says it’s because I am not going out there - getting out there - into some macrocosmic place that includes the blind spots. That someone for me may be hiding in the periphery, I know not. I do know that I may entertain the idea of outside intervention, however, not until I’m employed and perhaps could enjoy eating outside, unmeasured portions and unmodified chef’s creations. Right now, I want for nothing more than a career, nothing more than an excuse to purchase stationary. 

I feel stationary, not even on one of those good forsaken bikes because my legs feel stagnant as I try to pummel my way forcefully against all the odds stacked up against me: no job, no boyfriend, no role besides daughter and sister which are old news. I have no Hallmark cards that celebrate anniversaries or motherhood. My father still calls me princess, and I believe it. My mother, on a very good day, refers to me as “baby girl,” and I believe that too. It’s difficult for me to sense that so many years have passed when yesterday feels like over  ten years ago- a time when I was not diagnosed with anorexia - a time when I did not identify my body with something that weighs less than half of myself now.

Am I wanted? My age dictates that I am not capable of being so. It’s not just a number- it’s time passing by. My weight isn’t just a number, it’s my body at rest, amplifying with every morsel. I’m not so jaded, not so sheltered, and not so lost that I cannot see what is right in front of me: marriages and pregnancies - it’s like the bedroom door is wide open and I’m witnessing all. I don’t mean to sound crude, but this is the truth of being wanted and sought after. I sometimes wish that my eyes were veiled, my vision akin to staring out of rose-colored glasses, like it is for those brides with the red tinged shawl covering their head and shoulders.