By JOSEFA PETE
I had the dream wedding. The fairytale. The extravagance. For two years I consumed my time, my mind and my every essence with preparing for the “big day”.
I had a team of supporters. I needed a team. My family. My in-laws. My cousins. The excitement was contagious. The momentum unavoidable.
I was young and I knew what I wanted. There was very little that stood in the way of my dreams becoming my reality.
I became the Bride. Picture perfect .
Perhaps I was not as tall as the models in the magazines, but certainly full of the glow and radiance only a white dress, veil and diamonds can bring. Diamonds, oh diamonds. They are still the pain in my side. But I’ll leave that for another time.
The details were meticulous. I read every magazine. I searched every internet site. Looked for every possibility. I went to bed dreaming of phalaenopsis and woke up thinking of shades of purple and butterflies. I scampered across Melbourne to source the best fabrics, the best designers, the best photographers, the best videographers. There was not one thing I went without.
The big day came and it was exhilarating. Exceptional. Surpassed even my wildest dreams. Yes, in every essence it was perfect. Not one thing I would change. My parents were glowing with pride. My friends were still in shock from the theatrics of it all. I was complete. I had reached my dream, the perfect wedding, the perfect day.
So much energy. So much time. Planning and adjusting, refining and polishing. Making sure everything was just right. No time spent thinking about the next day. Or the next day. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. The thing that comes after a wedding. The marriage.