4 PM on November 2...

20 years ago, I was about to get married. At least I think I was; I can't remember what time the actual ceremony took place. Isn't that weird? I could tell you what we served (game hens with dried apricot stuffing), what I wore (Scaasi satin), and probably the names of all the people who attended. There was a lovely band with a red-headed singer who told me I had the most beautiful wedding dress she'd ever seen and she'd seen a lot of them. The caterer sent us back to our hotel with two extra dinners in a basket. I wanted to go down to the bar and continue partying with my friends. Two years ago in therapy Alan admitted that he had grave reservations about the marriage because of my desire to be with my friends and not with him: that for him, that was the sign that he'd made THE MISTAKE. I didn't go downstairs; we stayed in our suite and I accidentally locked the door that connected our two rooms -- me on one side, him on the other -- and had to call housekeeping to help us. Maybe that was the sign I'd made THE MISTAKE? Over the next 18 years, the signs got bigger -- Getting polluted at ex's Xmas party and flirting shamelessly with his boss makes spending part of my wedding night in a bar with my friends seem downright cute -- but we got just better at ignoring them. And that, people, is the true mistake.