That night, I felt anxious before my girlfriends and I had even arrived at the bar.
Once we were seated, I didn’t sip my drink. Instead, I gulped down cocktail after cocktail to take the edge off my mounting unease.
"Last night out before you’re a missus!" my friend Jaz, who knew me as a party animal, whooped as I downed yet another strawberry daiquiri. She winked and gestured to the barman for a refill. "We’re only just getting started!"
To the cheering friends around me, my eagerness to get plastered made it look like I was in the mood to revel. But I wasn’t drinking to celebrate my imminent marriage.
Instead, I was drinking to escape the voice in my head that warned: "Angie! You’re not ready to commit!"
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I was getting cold feet.
An hour into the drinking session, I excused myself to go to the toilet. My legs wobbled beneath me when I stood up.
In the quiet cubicle, I took my time. I needed to be alone. I didn’t understand why, but I felt overcome by a powerful mix of anger and grief. My friends were too rambunctious with happiness, too excited on my behalf.