![]() ![]() ![]() And there was my soon-to-be husband and his vintage tuxedo, waiting to marry me. Regardless of superstition or omen, here were my friends, who had come from all points on the United States map, and there was my dress and my new brown cowboy boots. What I overlooked was that the date was in the middle of Mercury retrograde, supposedly the time of year when one should avoid signing contracts or making life-altering decisions because of the potent possibility of reversal. ![]() I would be 33, an auspicious age to begin a new life. It was early March: I had chosen this day months before for its full moon, enchanted by the notion that it would also be a full lunar eclipse. There was another omen I decided to overlook. Yet I still needed to gather lilies, daisies and roses from the local grocery stores, shower, get into my orange mail-order dress, and put on my tiger’s-eye earrings before I went and got hitched. Ours would not be a traditional Mexican-American wedding we couldn’t afford mariachis, for one. A righteous hangover seemed ominous, but there was no time to contemplate this. My feet were sore from dancing on the wood floor of a bar the night before. Not only was my head on a strange pillow, it also housed a terrible rhythmic pounding. I WOKE up with my head on an unfamiliar pillow in a bungalow in the high desert of California, 140 miles from my dilapidated apartment in the Koreatown section of Los Angeles. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |