Elle (Canada) - - Wedding Special - CHAR­LOTTE HER­ROLD, AS­SO­CIATE FASH­ION EDI­TOR

I was con­fi­dent I didn’t have the wed­ding gene, and that was okay with me—un­til my boyfriend and I were in­vited to 12 wed­dings in one year. As the stack of gilded save-the-date cards, hand­made in­vi­ta­tions and even a Face­book re­quest rolled in, I be­came mired in a sub­way-stop-miss­ing anal­y­sis of why EV­ERY­ONE WAS GET­TING MAR­RIED BUT ME. I be­gan dread­ing ev­ery shower, bachelorette and dress fit­ting where I’d have to face friends and fam­ily, con­vinced they were won­der­ing the same thing.

Af­ter the first wed­ding, where a tipsy guest smashed a glass at the feet of the gra­cious bride be­fore yelling at her in the mid­dle of the dance floor, I had a re­as­sur­ing mo­ment of calm: This def­i­nitely wasn’t my scene. But at Wed­ding #2, a nex­tlevel gor­geous week on the Mayan Riviera, I caught my­self tear­ing up at even the least sen­ti­men­tal mo­ments of the cer­e­mony (like the groom hi­lar­i­ously screw­ing up his vows as “I prom­ise to ser­vice you”) and feel­ing less as­sured about not want­ing a wed­ding my­self.

Mere hours af­ter fly­ing back to Toronto (I think I still had sand be­tween my toes), we were off to Wed­ding #3. I felt ragged and some­thing dan­ger­ously close to re­sent­ment to­ward all the bliss­ful brides who were so cer­tain of their fu­tures. I still couldn’t pic­ture my­self at the cen­tre of any of th­ese events—not the moon­lit beach bash or the ritzy ho­tel ban­quet. What did this say about my re­la­tion­ship?

But by Wed­ding #4, some­thing shifted—blame just the right amount of cham­pagne and Phar­rell’s “Happy”—and I started hav­ing fun. I re­al­ized none of th­ese events felt like a fit for my guy and me be­cause, duh, they weren’t about us. They were per­fect for the cou­ples they cel­e­brated, and our life is per­fect for us, no mat­ter what type of wed­ding—if any—we de­cide to have.

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