My ex-husband and I wore identical white gold wedding bands. I sold my ring a couple of years back when my cash inflow became sparse as a newish business owner. Besides, it was not like I could wear it anymore either; it was just locked up in one of my drawers.
But my wedding dress was a whole other story. I loved the lace and the design. It was French lace, the East Asian designer had told me. I held onto the dress as long as I could until it became obvious to me that it was keeping me from my next partner, symbolically, psychologically, and energetically. Or I believed this to be the case, and so it was.
At first, I looked for a place to sell the dress. It was too beautiful to throw away. I wanted some other bride to wear it again. Maybe she would have better luck than I did.
But selling came with posting pictures on Facebook pages, shipping the dress, or delivering it to faraway secondhand wedding dress vendors by train. None of this appealed to me. I had “suffered” enough in marriage already. I settled on the nearby Value Village. The dress sat inside an Ikea bag for another month, after I had made the decision.
When I finally caught the bus to Value Village and placed the wedding dress on top of the donation bin, I thanked it. I thanked it for making me feel beautiful that day. I thanked it for a marriage that taught me about love, life, and compatibility.
A week before my wedding, my mother called me and asked me to call off the wedding. “You can find a man without this many complications attached to him.” This is because of the opposition from the groom’s mother on my religious background and personality (she thought I spoke too much and wasn’t respectful enough). We had to change the wedding location and keep the details under sealed lips to avoid any drama on the day.
Coming from a conventional woman like my mother, I felt empowered that she would stand by me on this matter and not succumb to the South Asian societal pressure of what people would think. I have never felt more loved by her than in that moment. But my distrust of her intentions, garnered by years of a sour, misunderstood relationship and tempered by my religious parents’ initial opposition to my interracial union, I did not listen to her. I let hope steer me away.
For my next wedding – I hope to follow in the steps of maestro male writers like Hemingway and Rushdie, although four marriages may be too much for me – I will wear an off-white satin dress. Flowy and less structured, to represent my most current version.
As I was leaving Value Village, I wished the bride who wears it next all the courage she needed. To stay in love, fight for her marriage, go to couples counselling, leave the groom at the altar, or call the wedding off when her mother gives her permission to do so, even if she doesn’t have the best relationship with her mother.
I took a long walk back home, listening to the wedding day playlist I had created ten years back. On the last stretch, the wedding march started playing, and I was transported back to the Portland City Grill, where we had tied the knot. I walked on and adjusted my sunglasses tightly, although it was almost dusk.
