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  • Writer's pictureJenny Wynter

The Wedding

This weekend  just gone was Tim’s sister’s wedding. And I’ll be honest – actually, that’s not even hard at all right now, apparently yet another side effect of life after the accident – the only thing that was creeping closer than the day itself was my dread of it. Not because I don’t adore Cat, or her amazing partner David, or even that I don’t like weddings. Because I do. In the words of Eloise, I love, love, LOVE them! (All of the above).

No, no, the reason for my rising reluctance is probably entirely obvious – namely that given the complete chaos of the past month, uprooting the family – indeed, just packing the BAGS required – for a trip down to Northern NSW (again, the fact it is one of my favourite places on this good earth yet I was still filled with fear speaks volumes about my very un-me state of being) just seemed like…well,  too much.

So fixated was I, upon just getting through the sheer effort of the logistics of getting us all down there, that I neglected to pay attention to one pretty damn amazing thing: that going to this incredible event could be just what the doctor ordered.

Oh my goodness. It was spectacular, emotional, delightful. And notably (and I’d like to point out right away that I do note the irony of the following revelation, given that this blog is very much a self-centred outpouring these days)…it was NOT ABOUT ME.

There was no (well, okay, relatively little) talk about car accidents, injuries, trauma, heart conditions, stress attacks, hospitalisation, medical jargon, depression or medication. Instead, it was all about the wonderful wonder of wonders: celebrating LIFE and LOVE.

I would love to post some photos on here when I get a chance. With the theme “flamboyant”, it was certainly one of the most colourful events I’ve seen since Woodford. Amazing. Feathers, top hats and spectacular dresses. And oh how healing it was. To toast. To smile. To laugh.

And to remember just how blessed we truly are to have each other. Friends. Family. People.

It was as the dance floor was being carved up that I had a massive life-changing moment (I know, I’ve already filled my quota for the year, but apparently it’s addictive). The DJ was completely killing me with his unparalleled taste in tunes to boogie on down to, yet, for the first time in my entire life, I was unable to dance my little heart out at will. It wasn’t a choice, like a self-conscious “Oh, no, I can’t,” but simply the way things were. At first I decided to opt for the next best thing and sit by the dance floor to watch. But, like being backstage watching the performers strutting their stuff in the spotlight, I just couldn’t bear it. I had to be part of it.

I got up and joined the party. And proceeded to do the only thing I really could: stand relatively still and do an arms only version of the Robot. For forty minutes straight. By God it hurt. And by God it was awesome.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, from this arose my lightbulb moment and said lightbulb moment was this: when my body is able, when I am ready, when I am healed or at least well on my way, I…drumroll please…I AM GOING TO DANCE.

I am going to dance every single day for the rest of my life. I am going to put music on, perhaps before breakfast, perhaps after, perhaps once the kids are asleep, perhaps before, but know this, there will be music and there will be shaking of booties. I will take classes. I don’t even care what genre, but I am going to dance because I love it – it brings me immense joy and I never, ever even realised how much until Saturday night when for the first time in my entire life, it was on too high a shelf for me to reach.

I’m gonna dance. Not for the fame or fortune, but simply for the FAB.

But for now, I shall just enjoy the memories of what was an incredible and, as it turns out, much-needed weekend of awesomeness.

And now…it’s back to getting through today.


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