Part I: My Wedding, The Hurt Locker and a Hot, Smart, Talented Blond

I’m starting down the aisle, white gown, father in tow, wedding party perfectly poised, and I look up to see my soon to be husband only to realize, he’s one of my ex’s. I start backing up. Hoping no one takes notice that I’m opting out of the invitation. I start sweating. I can’t breathe.  I’m telling my father that there’s been a horrible mistake and I don’t know how I got here. That I wanted so much more in my life and that I never, never, ever wanted to be that girl who settled. This is when I wake up. Gasping for air. Reaching for a nerve pill.

For the last ten years this has been one of my night torments.

My reoccurring nightmare has taken a new turn. Thanks to the movie, The Hurt Locker. For which I knew I should have taken a nerve pill after watching in order to ensure a descent night’s rest.
You are asking yourself why I would sit through two hours of a film that would induce anxiety. Fair question. I dig good art. My late-to-the-party plug for Kathryn Bigelow and the team that created The Hurt Locker is that this was a remarkable piece of art. It will go down as one of my top-ten, zeitgeist movies surrounding the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Heart wrenching. Poignant. Telling. It is well worth the anxiety.
And the suicide bomber that ruined my wedding in my dream that night.
The dream went like this…

I’m in the Middle East about to be wed in an Islamic style building. I am dressed and ready when I realize that there is a complete lack of organization. Everyone, in an unruly fashion, is enjoying a pre-wedding cocktail party. Breaking all tradition I set out donned in my white gown to find my groom and my wedding party and to instill order.
For which I receive intell that an insurgent as entered my wedding.
The insurgent  just so happened to be masked as my on-site hairdresser. Nevermind that I’m pissed at my own hairdresser for being unwilling to do my hair on “my big day.” And terrified that the insurgent is about to blow us all to the likes of confetti.

In truth (and breaking from my dream) my hairdresser, Brandon, is one of my best friends. And vows to me that he has a poor track record of wedding-to-divorce ratio and will not do my hair on my wedding day. I’ve told him that he is entirely too much of a diva to let another man touch my locks. He rolls his eyes when I tell him this and sighs in agreement. I digress. It takes serious muscle to blow this hair straight.

I now have this intel that an insurgent is at the wedding meanwhile my groom and wedding party are fully disorganized. Racing about in full panic I finally stumble upon the man I’m about to wed. I find him, tux askew, crushing beer cans on his head, laughing with his groomsmen and reminiscing about his college days. Never mind that he is fat and sweaty.

I look at him and think, Am I really about to marry that? I don’t bother with reason. I continue to try and find my bridesmaids. They are all scattered about. Cheersing it up with the guests of the wedding as though we’re in a scene from The Great Gatsby. Meanwhile they are in awful bridesmaid dresses. A Pepto Bismol colored pink. For a moment, I lose track of my mission to communicate to everyone that an insurgent is in the building. Instead I take pause. I take pause that all of my bridesmaids in my wedding had me in theirs for which I was succumbed to buying wedding dresses. Oh, they look perfectly awful in that color pink that I chose. Schadenfreude if you will.

In truth (and breaking from my dream), I will be making my tenth guest appearance in a wedding this November. Yep, tenth. But, I’m not bitter. Promise. I digress. The wedding count doesn't include when I married the City of Durham at "Marry Durham" this past Spring.

I’m now frantic. Yelling that someone needs to listen to me because an insurgent has entered the building and we are all doomed. No one pays me any mind. They all, in full F. Scott Fitzgerald style, continue clinking their stemware. Heads thrown back in laughter. Paying no mind to the bride. To me.
I start sweating. Through my white gown. Becoming even more irritated (because who plans so in advance that they put their wedding gown on hours before the ceremony.) My gown is now being ruined (as though the insurgent, the beer-can crushing groom, and pink dresses were not enough.) The scene is chaotic and with no one listening. I take matters into my own hands. I’ll take out the insurgent.

Off in search of him I go. Only to find myself in a part of the building that has an indoor pool. The kind that you would find at an Hampton Inn hotel in a town that hosts conferences and meetings. Where the smell of chlorine permeates the air.
That’s when I spotted him. The hairdresser. The insurgent. I knew it was him because who wears nothing else but a guitar slung around his waist covering his junk and decides to strum it while he wades into the shallow end of the pool. The guitar that is. I knew that he was about to blow. And sure enough the bomb was hidden in is guitar. Within minutes the damn thing went off. The bomb that is. And by some reason for which my Freudian mind only knows… I survived.
I was right. I knew there had been a suicide bomber in the mix. With a total sense of urgency, I race to announce to the wedding party that indeed… I was right. And maybe there are more to follow. Insurgents, that is. And we should all evacuate the scene. To which I hear music. And realize that the processional has started. The wedding has started without me. My Pepto Biz bridesmaids and my drunken fat, sweaty, beer-crushing, soon-to-be husband, have started without me. The wedding has started without me. I’m sweating. My make-up is running. My hair is frizzing. I stand for a minute in debate as to whether I show up for “my big day” or not. I wonder if the show can somehow go on without me. Then I remember that my hair can be saved. At least I have Brandon, my BFF hairdresser, who is still set to show up for my wedding. Brandon, at the very least, will be able to save my locks. Calm the frizz. Pull me back together. I exhale. I take rescue that at least someone will understand me. My hair. And the naked, guitar strumming, suicide bomber that just exploded in the indoor pool.  

And then I wake up. And reach for a nerve pill. After this maniacal dream, I did what any self-respecting person who has ever lived in Los Angeles would do. I called my hot, smart, talented friend, Kelly Sullivan Walden, who happens to be a dream expert.

I mean, honestly, who doesn't want to tell their dreams to that face?
I recounted the dream. She kindly agreed to interpret. Let’s all be nervous about the results. Check in for Part II in the next post.
In the meantime, cue up Hurt Locker to your Netflix. And invest in nerve pills. Maybe stay clear of indoor, hotel pools. And at the very least, find a really good hairdresser.