It was billed as the social event of the season. The
perfect dress was freshly pressed and hung in my closet, 120
invitations had been sent and 75 beautifully gift-wrapped presents
were on display in the newly remodeled living room. A half a dozen
bridesmaids (one was flying in from Germany) were ready to share
this most romantic of days. My girlhood home had been waiting for
this moment its entire life; I had been told forever that this
elegant country estate with its regal staircase had been purchased
with one thing in mind—my wedding!
So why was it that, three weeks before this major
production number, to the horror and embarrassment of my
conventional parents, I called off my nuptials? I recognized then
what I must have known all along—that I could not and should not
marry Neal Henderson, my high school sweetheart. He had been
dishonest with me and, although I was only 23, I knew instinctively
that marriages must be based on trust. It was the most difficult but
the best decision I ever made.
Two years later, I did finally have the nearly
perfect wedding with the nearly perfect man. Thirty-seven years
later we are still happily married and I have never regretted the
wedding that was not to be.
At that time, though, it was devastating, and there
were myriad practical matters to address. As an avid movie buff, I
first turned to the big screen for advice. In The Graduate, Benjamin
dramatically stops Elaine’s wedding. It was a great film, but as a
learning tool, it was a flop. Did Elaine give back her gifts or
apologize to her guests? I never found out because the movie ends
with Benjamin and Elaine riding on a bus into the sunset—fading out
with not one word about protocol. I then looked to the sophisticated
High Society for wedding bell etiquette, but to no avail. At the
zero hour, with guests neatly assembled, Grace Kelly substituted one
bridegroom for another and the invitees were not cheated out of a
wedding. If only real life imitated art!
Next, I tried to find a book to tell me what to do.
I consulted etiquette books galore but, alas, there was nary a word
about how to call off a wedding. Fortunately, at this stage, my
savvy sister-in-law, who instinctively knew what to do, took charge.
Together Shahla and I returned all the gifts. Even though I was
feeling genuinely sad about the non-wedding, I remember telling
Shahla that I thought I should be allowed to keep a few presents as
a consolation prize. Little did I know that, when I married David
van Hulsteyn two years later, I would indeed get some of these gifts
back. In the best “regifting” fashion, monogrammed towels with the
initial “H” greeted me at my bridal showers. Several of the present
givers protested a little too much when they told me they weren’t
sure how to spell van Hulsteyn, but thought it started with the
letter “H”. I was more than a little suspicious, because one of my
high school chums had suggested (after I called off my wedding) that
when I started dating again, I should give special attention to men
whose surname began with “H.”
My parents canceled the caterer and the wedding
tent. I volunteered to go to the printers to have “The Wedding Will
Not Take Place” announcements sent to the would-be guests. Trying
desperately to cheer myself up, I considered a note that said: “Due
to lack of interest, the wedding will not take place. Please stay
home.” The printers didn’t seem to have a highly developed sense of
humor, so I dropped this idea and stuck with the original plan.
Far worse than matters of practicality were the
emotional ramifications. I was reeling from this tailspin I had
created, but there was little time to lick my wounds. Besides, in
the Midwest, strong emotions are not encouraged. The Mary Tyler
Moore TV show, based in Minnesota, exemplified this Midwestern
trait. Prim and proper Mary always tried to do the right thing and
her prime directive was “No matter what happens, do not cause a
scene.”
This was not the first time I had been a trial to my
begetters. My parents had always found me “bohemian.” I was a writer
who had left the sanctity of Indiana to become an editor in New
York. I had been admonished my whole life for not being normal by
Midwestern standards—I hated bridge, refused to play golf and had
never made a tuna-noodle casserole. This deviant behavior had been
hard enough to justify to their friends, but canceling the party of
the year was a major faux pas. My father was president of the
Chamber of Commerce and owned a successful business, while my mother
was the social maven of the town. Having your only daughter call off
her wedding simply was not done. What would people say?
To make matters more difficult, Neal, my would-be
bridegroom did not want to cancel our nuptials. He called constantly
and implored me to reconsider. The first call said I was making the
worst mistake of my life and was followed by “How could you do this?
We were the perfect couple.” Finally, I heard the desperate “I can’t
live without you.”
Even though I still loved him, I never wavered.
Jane, my mother’s best friend, supported me in this difficult
decision. She told me she was still deeply in love with her doctor
husband and had known he was the one, the minute she met him.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she said. “You should never get
married if there’s any serious doubt .”
I completely understood what Jane meant when I met
David, the man I did indeed marry. I knew immediately that this was
the man I wanted to spend my life with. Before meeting the very
likable David, my friends in Atlanta thought I had taken leave of my
senses. Like an unwanted Greek chorus, they warned, “He’s not
Jewish.” “He’s divorced. “He’s ten years older than you.” “He’s a
physicist.”
In very southern old Atlanta, even my dermatologist
got in on the act. “He’s got two kids,” he drawled in his thick
Georgian accent. “Let me fix you up with one of my doctor friends
from the CDC.”
Even with all these doubting Toms and Tomasitas, I
never faltered. As uncertain and doubtful as I had been about Neal,
I was equally certain that David was my soul-mate. On our second
date, I knew unequivocally that we were going to get married. Jane
Austen must have had me in mind when she wrote in Pride and
Prejudice, “A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from
admiration to love; from love to matrimony in a moment.”
I did indeed very rapidly imagine that David was the
man I was meant to marry. Fortunately, my intuition has served me
well.
