My Second Chance at Love

We left the flower shop, drove to Interstate 465, bypassed downtown Indianapolis, and then headed west on Interstate 70. Destination unknown. We were running away, my little yellow Volkswagen bug and I.

It was Friday, August 1, 1975. Aunt Gracie called first thing in the morning to go over her list, again, of "Things To Do." Her calls were coming every day now, and the increasing urgency in her voice was making me anxious. Had we met with the minister yet? Did I have a final count? How many people were coming from out of town? Had I ordered the flowers? No. No. No. and I'll do it today.

"Can I help you?" the lady behind the counter said without looking up. She was cutting stems from a pile of red roses that were laying on the counter top and carefully sticking them in a vase.

"No thanks. Just looking." The selection of flowers was overwhelming. Too much stimuli. I couldn't focus, so I left. Outside, in the parking lot, I sat for fifteen minutes trying to remember what else was on my aunt's list. Nothing came to me. Nothing! My brain was awash in fog.

The one thing on Aunt Gracie's list that did happen on time was the mailing of the invitations, but that detail was at the top and way before the final countdown to the wedding. In the beginning of the engagement, when I hadn't put any thought into spending the rest of my life--THE REST OF MY LIFE!--with the soft-spoken, handsome star football player from southern Indiana, I had no difficulty following the wedding planners' instructions. Now, with just two weeks to go before I would be saying things like, "I promise to cherish, honor, and obey," and "thereto I give thee my troth," and "til death do us part," I was struggling to maintain my mental equilibrium.

After a few months of dating, my second chance at love, a sweet-talking southern suitor, had professed his undying love, presented me with a beautiful diamond ring and a book with detailed instructions on How to Please My Man, and I said Yes. But now with just two weeks to go before the celebratory throwing of the rice, mashing cake in faces, and pitching flowers at desperate old maids, I was giving this whole "pleasing your man til death do you part" thing some serious thought. I could cherish and honor, and I could even part with my troth, but obey? Nah! Good chance that wasn't gonna happen.

* * *

At the Cloverdale exit, my bug made a right turn, raced past a Yield sign without looking and kept on going. We were now in the country, surrounded by fields of soybeans, corn, and an occasional farm house. Aimlessly we drove, my bug and I. We were running away. Away from responsibility. Away from consequences.  Away from an undefined nagging feeling. With the peace of mind that country landscapes have always given me, the "I can do this! No, I can't do this!" battles that had been raging in my head for a week now had declared a temporary cease fire, but the calm could only be short lived. The future was coming, and it was coming fast. We had to go back. I had to make a decision.

"I can do this!" I said upon returning home later that night, and I meant it...at the time. At age twenty-nine,  I had finally met my Prince Charming. I loved Number Two, or was I in love with the idea of love?

AUGUST 14, 1975 - TWO DAYS BEFORE MY WEDDING

"I can't do this!" I said as I maneuvered my way through the stacks of wedding presents in my parents' living room. I sat down on the couch and waited for their shocked expressions, their anger, their accusatory shaking fingers, their admonishment, their disapproval of me, their tears. There were tears but nothing else. I can't say anyone was happy with my decision, but everyone accepted it, because, well, they had no choice.

There is an old saying about love and marriage. "When it's right, you will know it." I'd like to add another sentence to that saying. "If it doesn't feel right, don't do it."