I Got Married (1/2) By Ruth

(1/2), (2/2).

I got married (my one and only time) in 1981. It was November and I was a college student in West Texas. My husband to be was five years older than I. He was very rugged/handsome, and a former football player in a land where football is king. In fairness, this tale should be told with a Greek Chorus (you know, those people with white robes that say stuff like, 'Don't eat that, it's poison!' or 'Don't marry him, he's your son!').

My wedding was more of a tragedy than romance. I picture my Greek Chorus as a group of tough black women; firm, but genuinely concerned for my welfare. Chorus: Uh oh. O.J. Simpson alert. Get out girl!

His former girlfriends were all blonde beauty queens, with huge breasts, who fawned over aggressive football players. His Mom never was fond of the parade of Playboy bunnies that her son dragged through the door, so I guess that's why she liked me. I mean a skinny little Jewish broad, what's not to love? Chorus: Girl! Who you marryin'? Him or his Mama? He was an ex-Marine who narrowly missed deployment to Vietnam. He was also a military trained sharpshooter, and a gun owning dude with a love of nice weed, cocaine and blondes with ginormous jugs.

Chorus: You know this ain't good. He was a very smart guy, a good student, and our professors all thought we were such a lovely couple. Chorus: Your professors don't know shit.

After living together for a while, his Mom began to pressure us to get married. West Texas is the golden buckle of the Bible belt, and in those days living together was frowned upon. She dreamed of being able to tell the ladies at the hair salon that her son was married. I was a 23-year-old bookworm with a high GPA who wanted to attend medical school. Some of the subtleties of her agenda (and the whole mother/son oedipal thing) probably eluded me here. He definitely loved me more than I loved him - if any of what we called 'love' was actually the real deal. Don't ask me, I wouldn't know.

Anyway, his Mom planned this huge wedding in her hometown of Pampa in the West Texas panhandle, where all of her friends and their relatives could come witness the spectacle.

I called my parents to let them know I was to be wed. I cannot recall why my parents declined to attend. Oh yeah, they met him and thought he was a sociopath with substance addictions. I forgot that. So anyway, we arrive in the tiny town of Pampa and prepare for this Mardi Gras meets Children of the Corn Spectacular. There are photos of my bridesmaid and me getting our hair done, me with that awful white dress. It hung like a KKK robe. And the topper was a three-tiered twelve-foot veil, long enough to double as a noose. Chorus: Bitch! Are you getting any of this? It's a noose-veil!

So it's show time and we are all dressed up in our costumes as everyone arrives at the Baptist Church to see the skinny Jewish girl marry the hometown boy. Chorus: Oy to the vey. Whatever. Talk to the hand...

I was resplendent in my nightrider gown and noose-veil waiting outside the doors of the chapel for my grand entrance. As the organ music started up and the doors swung open, I surveyed all those folks as their heads turned towards me. All the way up at the front, I could see my man and his parents. Finally, it all rushed in within a nanosecond: this marriage would not succeed. Chorus: Girl, monkeys gonna fly out your skinny ass before this marriage lasts! I stood there frozen for a few beats. The primal urge to run was strong.

But alas, as I weighed my circumstance, I feared the angry mob with flaming torches. Besides, it's hard to run with four-inch heels, garters, the long gown, and the veil cum noose thing. So I had a little internal dialogue: 'This is a fucking non-starter. His Mom will go homicidal like Charles Manson if I bail. Of course, this is her day, not mine so I guess that makes sense. It's ok. It might work out. Oh yeah, this'll work out just fine if I get a fucking lobotomy. Ok, no need to get nuts about all of this. I'll give it a shot and if I don't like it, I'll get a divorce.' Chorus: Girlfriend, gnawing off your leg will be easier than dumping this guy.

Continued .... Next Page (2/2)

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