I like rules. Rules are a contract between ruler and rulee: If you don’t splash the top of the water, then we’ll let you swim with dolphins. If you do splash the water, then you have to get out. Rules mean that someone, besides me, has realized that something bad could happen, and is trying to prevent it.
***
Registering for wedding gifts was not as fun as I had hoped it would be. We walked out of the store twice without scanning anything because the pressure paralyzed me. Sales people followed us around telling us what we had to have: dish towels, a new microwave, a toaster, pots, pans, pillows, crystal, china. China.
There are hundreds, if not thousands, of china patterns. Our bridal consultant forced china on us: “Make sure you pick a pattern that you will love forever. You’ll use it for all the holidays. Here, let’s set it up on a table so you can see how it will look with the crystal you picked.” I couldn’t. Every time I thought I liked one, I changed my mind the second Bryan said he liked it too. I thought I wanted a traditional pattern with blue painted fruit baskets around the edges of the plates, like my grandmother’s. Then, I wanted a contemporary pattern with platinum swirls on the edges. I searched online for patterns not in the store. I went back and forth for weeks. I asked my mom what china should be. There had to be a china rule. She said it was up to me, but I didn’t know, and the idea that I had to know I would love it forever was too much to bear.
People constantly asked how I knew Bryan was the one. How did I know? How could I? I didn’t know how to be wife. Regardless, the invitations had been sent, deposits put down for the church, reception hall, flowers, photographer. People started sending gifts. My aunt sent money with a card that said she had wanted to buy us a place setting of china, but didn’t see it on the registry. How could I get married if I couldn’t even pick a forever china pattern?
It was in the midst of my weeks-long panic attack that the pastor at our church emailed me the script of our vows, and told me that we could change them however we wanted. I read them. Vows. Rules. I printed them. I took them into the kitchen and read them to Bryan.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Really? You want me to obey you?” I asked.
“Right, like that would ever happen,” he said rolling his eyes.
I stared at him and pictured Patrick Bergin’s character in Sleeping with the Enemy right before he back-hands Julia Robert’s character for not organizing their kitchen pantry the way he wants. Until they get married, he is funny, understanding, handsome, perfect. But, then he beats her into submission. I didn’t think Bryan would ever beat me, but I did think that he might change. What if he expected me to obey him?
“Uh-uh, look at you,” he said. “Don’t get stuck on that one word. We can change it, right? So take that word out if you want.”
He handed me a pencil, I crossed out the words “and obey,” and then we tweaked the rest: We would be not man and wife, but husband and wife. Neither of us knew for sure how we wanted those labels to define us, so we agreed to help each other figure it out over time. We realized that the traditional vows were too vague, naïve and some of them outdated. They had the right idea, but they were too romanticized. It seemed irresponsible to enter into the commitment of marriage without having further discussions about phrases like “forsaking all others.” Both of us agreed that cheating would not be tolerated, but we also recognized the need to be realistic: If cheating did occur then we promised to be honest with one another about it and to, at least, respect the non-cheating spouse enough to use protection because, as Bryan said, “nobody wants herpes.” We didn’t know that we would love one another forever. We couldn’t. All we could know was what we knew at that moment.
Right in front of me there was a contract.
Two months later, I stood in the dressing room of the church, waiting with my bridesmaids to walk down the aisle. The church coordinator came in and told the girls to line up. They walked out single file, each one hugging me as she passed. I turned and looked at myself alone in the full-length mirror. Was I ready? I looked down at my “something old” – my grandmother’s wedding ring that I wore on my right hand. I walked out of the dressing room and waited for sanctuary’s double doors to open.
***
Bryan grabs my hand and gives it a gentle “it’s okay” squeeze. I give him a weak smile. The trainers tell us to jump in with our legs straight and arms crossed over our chests, like divers. They demonstrate. I looked over to see how far away the ladder is that the trainers use to climb back out of the pen. Our group is the closest group to it. I’m not sure how I feel about the trainers not staying in the water with us. Bryan lets go of my hand and takes a step toward the edge of the dock. He turns around and says, “If you get nervous, just get out. It’s not like you’re gonna be stuck in here.”
I’m not worried that I’ll never be able to get out. Even if a dolphin, or God forbid, dolphins maul me, I feel certain that at some point I’ll be dragged out. But until then, it would hurt in ways I can and cannot imagine. And, there is no telling how long it would take to recover from something like that. Watching starts to look much more appealing than doing, but then my mother’s voice comes to me. My whole life she’s tried to get me out of my own head—to not allow opportunities to pass me by because of my anxiety. Whenever I’m afraid to do anything she says, “The time is going to go by whether you do this or you don’t. You can either have done something by the end of that time, or you can have not.”
Bryan crosses his arms over his chest and disappears off the dock into the water, with the dolphins. I step forward and look down. These ninety minutes will go by whether or not I do this. And I jump.
• • •. • • •
