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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

The write time
One classmate is on her way to literary fame, anointed by the New Yorker; the other's on her way to the grocery store.
By Tracy Mayor
[06/29/99]

Problem family
When domestic abuse showed up in my neighborhood, I had to decide whether to help or keep my distance.
By Jill Wolfson
[06/28/99]

The tyranny of fashion
As clothing comes to signify less and less about a person, I wonder if I should bother getting dressed at all.
By Erin J. Aubry
[06/25/99]

Column
Dog day
The death of a beloved friend makes plain the beauty of this world.
By Anne Lamott
[06/24/99]

Kickin' it
Mia Hamm's soccer prowess has finally launched women's sports into the mainstream. But is she ready for icon status?
By Ethan Zindler
[06/23/99]

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I was told by millions of girlfriends that I would not remember the day itself, but I remember every second of it. I remember waking up to sunlight and a beautiful blue sky (something blue!) and realizing I'd forgotten to even obsess about the weather. I remember spending the whole gorgeous morning getting ready with my sisters and nieces, applying eye shadows and lipsticks, pinning flowers into hair. I remember laughing as we tried to fit me and my dress into the back seat of my brother-in-law's old Taurus and checking my mascara in my compact mirror about 800 times as we drove to the church. I remember said mascara running down my face the minute I made eye contact with my father, who was waiting proudly at the entrance for me to take his arm. I remember the sharp, sweet scent of my bouquet as we "proceeded" up the aisle, and knowing that the bouquet in my hands was shaking, but not wanting to look down, and looking instead at the faces of aunts and the uncles, the grandmothers and girlfriends, and finally, him, all smiling at me, some with tears. I remember the profound beauty of the ceremony, most of which we had written, and the almost palpable vibe in the room as we repeated our vows. It was the energy of 50 happy people in sync with one another, all of us believing at that moment in the power of love.

So why, after all this perfection, did I spend so many days afterward feeling so depressed? Why did I feel like I had failed somehow? What was suddenly so alluring about my bed? I decided to poll some of my newlywed friends to see how they'd survived their weddings. "I remember waking up the next day and saying, 'That's it?'" my friend Anne said. She designs missiles for the government. "Twelve months of planning and now this, just your basic hangover?"

My younger friend Mary, a Harvard entomologist, had this to say: "It's like when, you know, you kill an ant while it's eating something and its jaws remain clamped on the food. That's how I felt after my wedding. Like my jaws were still clamped onto something." She rubbed her chin. "I had to go down to Chinatown and get herbs."

Melinda, an aspiring actress, said her reaction was identical to how she felt after the closing night's performance of a play, or at the end of a movie shoot. "After spending six months becoming a character, it's not like you can just abandon that person overnight. You need some time to adjust."

Hmmm. So, like, a bride is a character and putting together a wedding is like producing a film? I tested this analogy on my new husband, a producer himself.

"Um," he said, perplexed. "I think you were just tired. That was a lot of work."

My sister said, "Stop trying to analyze so much."

Would that I could. It's an extraordinary event, a wedding. And after it was over I got to thinking that my own life, in comparison, was, well, ordinary. The curtains had closed, the makeup artists and hair stylists had moved on to real clients and I was no longer a bride. I began to suspect that my wedding really was the most elaborate gala I'd ever attend. Never again would I be the center of attention like that. Never again would I be told how beautiful I look for six straight hours. Never again would I get to spend so much time conspiring with my stepmother, an extraordinarily busy woman I adore. Never again will I be allowed to throw away ungodly sums of money on a dress, a headpiece, a makeover. In other words, never again would I get to live a day in the life of Gwyneth Paltrow.

Next page | With the wedding over, I was more stressed than ever