I stand at the mouth of the aisle with butterflies dancing all over my body. My nerves twist and turn beneath the bodice of my constraining gown. I look over to my right and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I was radiant—my hair flowing with long brown curls, my smile wide, and my dress beaming as white as a thousand doves. I inch closer to my reflection and notice a pimple that was missed by the makeup artist. My smile drops as I examine my entire face, noticing how my eyeshadow isn’t blended completely and my teeth are still coffee stained despite the three whitening treatments. My hips look too wide and my waist isn’t small enough. My hair looks crunchy, and I should have gotten a trim. Why did I decide on a sweetheart neckline?
The organist crescendos and it is my cue to walk in. Swallowing hard, the doors swing open, and I’m blinded by beautiful lights and the color ivory glistening around the chapel. Hundreds of our friends and family members rise in synchronization as I begin down the too long walkway. The anxiety in my stomach grows with each step I take, my uncertainty written all over my face. I force toothy smiles across the room as the congregation stares in awe at my appearance. One of my distant cousins whispers to his date as they look at me. Intrusive thoughts bombard my mind, and I am unable to stop them. I feel the knot in my stomach tighten and I struggle to keep on a happy face. My wobbling legs resemble a baby deer learning to walk for the first time, and like all baby deer do, I fell. I knew these heels were too high. The guests overdramatically exclaim in unison. A man that I didn’t recognize in the pew next to me catches my arm before I hit the deck, but my face still burns red hot like an untamed fire.
My stomach is at war with the rest of my body, fighting against every single part of me. I continue my marathon down this goddamned aisle. I approach my groom and the thoughts start to race once again. My stomach churns aggressively. My mouth begins to water. I keep swallowing, but it’s no use.
“Are you okay?” He asks, touching my arm gently.
My stomach wins the war against my body, and I ruin his Armani shoes.