A girl is out with friends having drinks on Toronto's trendy King Street. A man approaches her and refuses to leave her alone until he gets her phone number. She relents and passes him her business card, if only to make him bug off. She stays for another round of drinks and calls it a night, not giving a second thought to the annoyingly persistent but seeminlgy harmless guy she gave her digits to.
It started about five years ago. Everyone – and we mean EVERYONE – got married. Being in a university sorority meant we knew a lot of women – some as close friends, some as acquaintances and some simply as recurring names in the endless stream of gossip that permeated our lives as part of the so-called “Greek system.” Back then we were like all the other girls – crushing, flirting, dating, crying, begging, breaking up, getting back together, falling in and out of love and, from time to time, daring to dream of our future weddings. What would the dress look like? How many bridesmaids would we have? And – most importantly – who would the groom be? We were all travelling the same path at that time; all puzzling over the complexities and emotions of “being in a relationship;” all wondering (and worrying) – when would that wonderful, white day, with its “I dos” and promises of everlasting love and happiness, come?
And then we came to that big, fat intersection. You know the one. You can either take a right, hit cruise-control and coast down scenic Wedding Way, where the sun shines and the birds sing and all the floral arrangements match the place settings or hang a left, shift into four-wheel drive and do your darndest to navigate Lonely Lane, a rocky, winding, unpredictable route fraught with potholes, landmines and seats at the singles’ table (it’s the one at the back of the room, in case you didn't know). Read more.
