I had a dream the other night that I was getting married. I had the dress, the boquet, the church, everything. I was walking into the chapel with my mom, a flurry of activity around me as things were readied for the event. I had a picture of the groom in my head: An ordinary bloke. Handsome enough. But amid all the activity, my stomach turned and I became sick with worry. I didn't know if he made me laugh. I wracked my mind for memories of laughter. But the only thing that came were the moments when I made HIM laugh. This wouldn't do. This was too cruel. How could I marry a man unable to make me even chuckle?
My concentration broke as I accidentally kicked over a bottle of water and watched it roll under a pew. I stared at it, like it was an alien. Tugging me on the arm, my mom broke my gaze and lead me to a dressing room to wait. I sat there alone, desperately trying to convince myself that this was OK. I could go through with it, couldn't I? Despite the lack of wit on his end? I could do it. I certainly couldn't back out now, not with all the guests arriving. If I could just sneak out the back door. Take a bus. Get away. Escape it all.
The alarm went off at this point, pulling me back into reality. I awoke, single, the sole occupant of a king-sized bed in my parents' home.
Now THERE'S something to laugh about.