If I’m being honest, the cold feet started long before our wedding day.

On the third date, I noticed that the curious questions had stopped. Anthony talked mainly about himself. I decided that it was my responsibility to inform him about me. (Why was I relying on him to ask me questions anyway? I was an adult.)

During our long-distance dating period, we didn’t talk much. We touched base every day, but the calls were just check-ins. There just wasn’t that much to say, somehow. And that wasn’t ideal, but I convinced myself that things would be different once we were married. Just having our bodies in the same location would facilitate conversation.

I was also sad that I didn’t get to see him. I was lonely. There was always a countdown to our next visit every time we parted. But…I noticed that every time our reunion approached, I’d feel disappointedly ambivalent about seeing him.

I wanted the curious questions and the meaningful conversation. I wanted a romantic reunion at the airport. I hadn’t seen him in months. I wanted to be swept up in love, twirling around together in a bliss that long-distance lovers should experience.

Instead, he’d be waiting right where I feared he’d be…at the curb outside my gate, (and, was I reading this right?) mildly pleased to see me. One time, I told him how I felt and he did meet me inside the airport, but it didn’t feel good. It felt obligatory. And I never asked again.

I did not want to be alone in my enthusiasm about us, and so I learned to temper my expectations and desires. What I knew about myself was that I was a lover of playful romance, and I frequently had my head happily floating in the clouds. Although my heart ached not to have its frivolous romantic desires met, what I actually wanted was something real. A real relationship with not only simplicity in love and affection, but also complicated feelings and challenges, things to work through, and a more grounded love that didn’t get caught up in the whims of fantasy. It was all welcome.

Then came a time when I really needed his support and it was nowhere to be found.

I had just returned home after visiting Anthony for the first time on the east coast and was invited to have coffee with his parents. After some months of dating, I of course knew that he never missed church on Sunday; what I didn’t know was that it was mandatory for Catholics.

Anthony’s mom had a lot of questions for me, and one of them had to do with his new church. I innocently answered that we had lost track of time and didn’t make it to church that Sunday.

Right there and then, she lost it. She. was. livid.

…and told me (very loudly) ((right in the same coffee shop where Anthony and I had met)) that I had committed a mortal sin and would be going to hell. That I was a bad influence on Anthony. That maybe her mother was right all along, that I wasn’t good for him.

I actually thought that she was teasing me in dramatic fashion…her reaction was too obnoxious to make sense as the truth. I laughed but she didn’t. She got up and left the table. I turned to her husband and asked if she was kidding. He shook his head, a diplomatic, almost apologetic, smirk on his face. I was flabbergasted. What did I know? I wasn’t Catholic. I was the kind of Protestant who watched church from the TV in the megachurch lobby, sipping coffee. (Oh, and the other half of the time, I was still in bed.)

When she returned, Anthony’s mom sat down and strung together some more passive insults. I don’t remember what she said, but at that point, my anger had started to surface. Luckily, the next thing she said was that she had better leave before saying something she regretted. I agreed; they left.

I called Anthony right away. I was shaking. I was angry and confused and incredulous at what had just happened. I was in a state of panic, having unintentionally ratted him out and created a schism in “our” family. I had walked into this situation totally blindsided and was looking for some reassurance that everything would be okay.

What I got instead, after having told him the story: “Damn, lady–you narked me out!” Now, he was pissed. At me. I felt sick to my stomach, confused and utterly alone. If he didn’t have my back, who would? I was sorry to have gotten him into “trouble”; that was an accident. But I was also really needing support, and was I being ridiculous for that? I wasn’t sure. So I chalked his reaction up to lots of things that I didn’t understand…his relationship with his mom, pressure from his family, the Catholic faith, all of that.

We hung up without resolution, never discussing it again. In the following days and weeks, we moved on, but things didn’t feel right between us. I really didn’t know where I stood with him anymore. I wondered if I ever did, or would.

I told my roommate about the situation. She encouraged me to postpone the wedding…to think about it a little bit longer. She saw red flags. I was then pissed that she would bring those to my attention when I was clearly trying to ignore them. I was unconsciously asking her to console me. “What elephant? There’s no elephant in here, silly. You’re just being ridiculous.”

My roommate had seen it all, because plenty of other troubling thoughts and emotions came up during our dating, but I just couldn’t get past the story I created in the beginning. It was too good to give up. And anyway, I assumed that things would be different once we were married and living together. Sure, difficult things like this would come up now and then, but we would work through them and grow closer. There would be misunderstandings, but through them, we would learn each other and love each other.

On our wedding day (like a lot of wedding days), things were crazy. I didn’t see Anthony until I was walking down the aisle, arm interlocked with my dad’s, moving towards him. When I arrived to him, he flashed his incredible smile and said, “You look beautiful…great dress!”

It was a loooong (yep, Catholic) service. Then, time for the vows, which was the part that I was waiting for. It was our chance to vocalize our intentions to love and cherish each other. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to prepare Anthony for what the sacredness and importance of this moment meant to me…mostly because it had never entered into my imagination that what happened next would happen.

In trying to make an uncomfortably serious occasion (for him) less serious, he made goofy faces at me the entire time I was reciting my vows. Crossed eyes, flared nostrils, death stare.

I can see how (for a different partner) a playful approach would have been endearing and supportive…just what was needed for the moment. It just wasn’t…me. It wasn’t what I wanted.

Our first dance as a married couple, all of our friends and family surrounding us, I wanted to look into his eyes and connect. I wanted to share intimacy with my new partner in this once-in-a-lifetime moment that was going by so quickly. I tried to engage him; I couldn’t get through. He looked everywhere except at me, for the whole entire dance. I know, I know…maybe he was nervous…maybe he was distracted…maybe whatever.

Maybe it was a small thing; maybe it was not. But I couldn’t ignore that now my feet were frigid.

Oh…and did I mention the thing that my bridesmaid – that same roommate – said to us after we walked back down the aisle as a married couple? “Did you forget to kiss?” We did.

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