Cold Feet

Jul 25  |  Kim Hart

I peek through the church doors. It’s packed full of people I don’t really know.

A hundred different perfumes and aftershaves waft out to the foyer making me more nauseated than I was in the limo. I feel like a swarm of bees have made a hive in my stomach.

Saying ‘Yes’ a year ago now seems like such a bad idea, like the worst one I’ve ever had. What made me think this life dream would make me happy? All my friends are jealous and can’t understand why I’m so worried. Now I just have to go through with it or else my Mum will kill me. I heard her complaining on the phone the other day about how much this wedding was costing her. Imagine if I back out now? I’d turn a wedding into a funeral. As soon as I can, I’ll pay her back, at least for my dress.
But now I just have to concentrate on getting down the aisle, without tripping or puking. I’ve had nightmares about doing both as this day’s gotten closer. I look down to make sure last night’s horror hasn’t come true. Phew! Dress, tick. No nudie run today.

I run my hands over the smooth ice-white satin. My dream dress, the one I’ve imagined wearing for as long as I can remember. The months of tedious fittings have been so worth it, it fits perfectly. When Mum zipped it up this morning, she had tears in her eyes.

“My baby, so beautiful,” she said over and over again. I think she thought we’d never get to this day. The amount of times I wanted to back out, but every time she talked me away from the edge. I started again last night with all the reasons why this was a bad idea.

“Cut the hysterics, Miranda. You have cold feet, that’s all,” she said, as she cut ribbons to tie on all the wedding favours. “Over my dead body will you back out now. Imagine how devastated Sam would be.”

So I cut the hysterics and kept my true feelings under wraps.

Now, here I am, taking deep breaths in the foyer of the church trying not to let those hysterics bubble to the surface again. Everyone else is chatting excitedly. Mum rearranges my curls for the umpteenth time. I don’t know how any of them could possibly be out of place, there are a thousand bobby pins and a can of hairspray holding it together. Just between us, I think she’s as nervous as I am.

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” I lie, wishing I was somewhere, anywhere else.

“I’m sure you will be, darling. Now, here’s your basket of petals. Make sure you scatter them evenly down the aisle so it looks pretty when Aunty Sam walks over them. And don’t walk too fast. And remember to smile. You’ll be the best little flower girl ever. I’m so proud of you.”

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