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hairbrush—that woman can see right through me! streamed across my brain like an emergency thunderstorm warning on a used television set. Her fingers must have been swimming around inside my delirious brain picking apart my conscience. My mind started racing and I felt a sudden surge of anxiety. She was saying out loud and in unison, with what I had already been thinking all along—confirming all of my deepest fears. Psychic girl must have had a magic, purple turban and a crystal ball hidden behind the manicure stations. I felt sideswiped by my bewitching stylist and her clairvoyant insights. I had to wonder if a supernatural force was working against me to stop our wedding. I felt horrible after my gypsy collision crystallized my reality.
    I was preparing to walk the wedding-day plank. The upside of the whole crazy ordeal was that my hair looked impeccable for my front-row public hanging at the hotel chapel. My single-gal days were rapidly nearing their expiration date. My mom and I left the salon together and my impending doom was near. Tick tock, tick tock, the unforgiving clock was breathing heavily down my neck. The shadows of darkness were closing in on me as I rushed to finish getting ready. The bridal game plan was that my mom and I were going to meet up in her room, as soon as I grabbed my dress from the lion’s den. Sounded easy enough for any normal bride to be, but I was no normal bride. My mom’s job was to somehow find a way to squeeze me into my super tacky, princess wedding dress.
    I was still so sideswiped after my psychic hair experience that I got off on the wrong floor with my puffy wedding dress in tow. It took a few moments for me to realize that my karmic compass was broken as my hand was banging on the wrong hotel door and screaming, “Mom, open up, over and over again”. It felt like I was in some barren abandoned land—everything was blurred. All of the floors were identical, except for the room numbers, and there was not a human being to be found. I started to hyperventilate and my limbs felt heavy. I was at the wrong door, in the middle of a mini meltdown, and then out of nowhere, I had a calm moment that came over me like a cool breeze. It was a momentary break in total chaos and I could breathe again. In my new, Zen-like state, I had a possible revelation about my fate. Could banging on the wrong door have a much deeper meaning? I had to acknowledge the irony of my screw-up. God may have had a hand in my lost downward spiral. Maybe the surreal experience was an attempted bridal intervention from a much more divine and enlightened place. 
    It took a second to clear my mind, ignore my higher self, and make those inconvenient thoughts simply disappear. The mere thought that God may have played a part in trying to destroy our wedding was not included on my to-do-list that afternoon. I conveniently changed the radio station in my brain to easy listening for my checked-out-enjoyment. Hitting the down button in the elevator on the way to my mom's room was almost painless. Maybe my guardian angel was sitting on my shoulder slapping me around a bit? I heard the dreadful warning whispering to me from my long lost conscious, "Wrong door, equals wrong man, Honey." I needed to get hit with a nail- encrusted-two-by-four to get the picture! The roadblocks I bumped into that day were in no way coincidental. However, I did not have time to heed any supernatural signs. I was getting married in a few hours—no matter what! We were headed straight to the chapel to say our "I Dos”. I was going to walk down to that alter naked with “something blue” pasties on if I had to!

I actually indulged myself in the twisted concept that being married and divorced was a far better option than never being married at all. I was afraid that I’d become the over-the-hill lady, with the darkened door step, and a “I love my thousand fur balls” bumper sticker stuck on my wood paneled station wagon—not happening. I