His proposal was a complete shocker for me. I had known him for less than two years and had moved in with him just three months ago. Everything seemed to happen at supersonic speed; it felt like I was seated in a fast moving car, while my surroundings whizzed past me at lightning speed.
I hadn’t had the time to think about anything. But, I had no complaints. I had been my happiest after a really long time; at least that’s what my family said. Bad relationships often have that effect on you. When you’ve seen the worst, anything remotely nice seems like the best. Perhaps this is what it was.
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On the outside, the ring he proposed to me with looked like a cluster of diamonds with a ruby in the center. But it wasn’t just a ring, it was a piece of heirloom, something very precious to his family, and he had decided to give it to me. So I knew I was special.
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I wore that ring with so much pride and flaunted it to all my girlfriends, making a lot of them envious. They’d hold my hand, look at the ring, and sigh in a dreamy voice, “You’re so lucky.”
When they started accompanying me to all the bridal couture stores, I could see it in their eyes that they envied me more than they pretended to show. I tried on a lot of dresses, and each one was better than the last. Within a few weeks, I knew what I wanted, and got everything I’d ever dreamed of having in my wedding. And finally, the day had finally arrived.
Fancy invites were sent out, one of my favorite bands was booked to play a list of all my favorite love songs, and a posh caterer had been given specific instructions about the food. Everything was ready for the D-day. And it was the night of my bachelorette party, the last day of me being single before becoming a Mrs. Obviously, I was hammered after downing shot after shot; I didn’t even need any encouragement. As the night wore on, I could barely see straight, let alone stand upright. That’s when I picked up my cellphone and noticed that I had five missed calls. It was my fiancé; he said he wanted to see me immediately, when I returned his call.
In that inebriated state, I walked out of the bar to meet him. I’m pretty sure I was holding my sandals in one hand and my jacket in the other. The drunken me was elated and couldn’t stop smiling at seeing the man of my dreams in front of me. What he told me next wiped away any trace of that smile from my face.
I was confused and thought it was some kind of a joke, maybe he was trying to pull a fast one. But he wasn’t. He had a change of heart, he said. He didn’t want to take things further and marry me, he said. I was too drunk to reason with him, so I did the only thing I could, given the state I was in – I sat on the pavement crying. He left not long after, taking the ring with him. I was still unsure of what had just happened. Did I just get dumped at the altar?
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Not quite, since we never made it to the altar, but technically, yes, I was jilted.
The shame and humiliation burning me from the inside out would have killed me, if not the freezing temperature outside.
When I woke up the next day, I tried calling him to talk to him about what had happened the night before. I wanted to rule out the possibility of an alcohol-induced nightmare. Sadly, it wasn’t a nightmare. It was the truth. He wanted out.
He said he was ‘sorry to end it like this.’ Seriously? That’s all he had to say? Sorry for making me believe that I was a special woman, sorry for making me fall in love with him, sorry for telling me a hundred times that he loved me too, sorry for making my girlfriends get jealous of me, sorry for calling off the wedding the day before! Did it justify? Of course it didn’t. It wasn’t enough.
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My first thoughts were if he had suffered a horrible case of cold feet, I had mentally prepared myself to tell him that it was alright to postpone the wedding. The invitations were sent out, it would be embarrassing for me and my family. Besides I had paid a fortune for a couture dress and the other arrangements. I had spent a lot of my savings on most of these arrangements, including a honeymoon on a tropical island!
But he had made up his mind, and no, it wasn’t the jitters or cold feet. He said he didn’t feel like it anymore. He said it had all happened too fast for him, and he couldn’t process it right now. Any effort to persuade him was in vain, and I wasn’t a person who forced something on another human being. It was tough luck and it was horrible to be dumped at the altar.
I went to our apartment to pack up my things, I resigned from work despite having no backup plan. All I knew was that I couldn’t live in embarrassment anymore. I called up my friend who lived eight hours away from me, and drove there with a few things.
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The first few months were extremely difficult. I couldn’t digest the fact that something like this had happened to me. Yes, to me. But I guess this was life’s way of telling me that my part of the suffering wasn’t over yet. This was probably the last. At least that’s what I hoped for. I became immune to pain and rejection. I found it really hard to find a job, and was scraping off the meager savings that were refunded by the various wedding vendors to me.
Time passed by and I managed to find a job. It wasn’t fancy, but it helped me split my bills with the friend, who had graciously put me up in her spare bedroom. Getting on your feet after a massive blow to your ego and pride is the most difficult thing to do. There are so many inhibitions, so many fears, yet each day I’d wake up and tell myself it was okay.
It was okay to get dumped at the altar, it was far better than murder or rape. It was better than being cheated on or going through a divorce. It was for the good. But I wasn’t sure if it was for my good though. Maybe it was, after all. I had moved to a different city, found a new job, and had begun living again. I did have my outbursts from time to time, and wine helped me cure those moments. One whole bottle and long nights crying with my face dug into my pillow.
Soon, I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel, work got interesting, and I was promoted. I did very well for someone who had been through a lot of emotional trauma. I built a strong portfolio and soon climbed up the ladder. In about a year’s time, I had been promoted again and was single-handedly managing a team. I had managed to impress everyone at work and received a lot of accolades.
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There was no time for anything else. These were the best days of my career, and I knew I had nailed it. The next promotion came a year later, making me one of the top dogs in the firm. I sometimes sat back in my office, reliving some moments from my life, and a tiny tear would drop down the corner of my eye. I wondered how life would have been had I not been dumped at the altar.
Maybe, I’d have children by now, living in a large house in the suburbs. I would have long given up my career to raise my child, and would have been the quintessential homemaker. There was nothing wrong with that, perhaps it was better than coming back to an empty studio apartment in the city! Standing and eating alone from a take away container, with a glass of wine to wash down any solid remains in my throat. I had to do the same thing now; after all.it had been three years since the big episode had happened.
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I was now an independent, successful career woman, and was in control of my life. I wouldn’t trade that for anything else in the world. Surely not for a man! So, I was okay. Really okay.
I did try dating, but it just didn’t seem right. And this time, I wouldn’t let myself get hurt. So I played it safe.
The last time I checked, he was dating someone and living with her.
It didn’t matter anymore; I was at peace knowing that I wouldn’t let another man into my heart so easily. I wouldn’t be fooled again, and I wouldn’t fall in love anymore. I am doing fine, just fine.
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