Unlike a lot of women in their thirties, I’m in no personal rush to put a ring on it—or have one put on me. I’ve been there and done that—a long time ago.

Therefore, the next time, I want to be as sure as humanly possible that I’m not going to screw it up. Possibly by waiting until the endorphins settle down before I walk down the aisle for a second time.

Of course, I don’t want to be too hard on myself, because I was only twenty-one the first (and so far only) time I tied the knot. I really had no idea what I was getting into.

My life at the time wasn’t exactly stable. It was my sophomore year at CW Post, Long Island University, and I came home to live with my dad and stepmom after spending a semester in London. While I was away, my sister moved in. Suddenly, I felt like there was no place for me.

That’s when Burak swept in.

If I had a “type,” I guess it would be tall, dark, and foreign. Blame it on my time in London. I know, when you think of England, you probably think of pale and pasty British guys. But no! London offered a whole range of international manly delights a girl from the ‘burbs could never even imagine.

So when I got home after my London adventure and wound up bored and alone and feeling unwelcome in my own home, I was ripe and ready to be rescued. No white horse required—just a foreign passport.

Of course, I was stuck on Long Island, which isn’t known for its cosmopolitan flair. How was I ever going to find the exotic man of my dreams? I definitely wasn’t going to meet him at the local Red Lobster.

So, I went looking on the Internet. There was this new thing at the time called online dating. I had no idea at the time that it would end up generating much of my romantic life.

I logged on—and I met Burak.

Burak was your typical charmer—exactly the tall, dark, sexy foreigner I had pictured in my fantasies. He was from Istanbul, Turkey, from a good, well-to-do family (something that sounded mighty appealing to me at the time) and he was getting his master’s in chemistry at Hofstra University, which just happened to be located minutes away from CW Post!

I was smitten pretty much from the get-go. I remember rushing from class back to my dorm room to chat with him every single day. It was so exciting! Plus, he could type a lot better than he could speak English. The first time we talked on the phone, my heart was pounding the whole time, knowing that there was this exotic, mysterious guy on the other end, and he liked me! It didn’t matter that the conversation basically consisted of one-line sentences and trying to figure out what the other person was saying. He seemed so much more mature and together than the sloppy American frat boys I usually met did.

Eventually, we arranged to meet in person at a local bar. He brought a friend to do a lot of the translating, but that just made it even more exciting. I didn’t care if his English sucked! I knew it was bound to improve, which it rapidly did. Besides, the language of love knows no boundaries.

At least, the language of sex doesn’t.

The chemistry between us was explosive. I had never experienced anything like it with anyone else. But it wasn’t just about the sex (the mind-blowing, amazing sex). We became inseparable really fast. I felt like I would be lost without him. With all the crazy shit going on in my dysfunctional family, he was my rock. He had become my lover, boyfriend, and best friend in only a few months.

After about four months, the semester was drawing to a close, and there we were on a starry night, sitting in the oh-so-romantic location of the local Chili’s parking lot. I “innocently” asked Burak what his plans for the future were.

He told me he planned to return to the “motherland.”

I burst into tears.

The next week, we went to dinner at a Turkish restaurant in the city, where Burak proposed a solution. Well, actually, he proposed. He asked for my hand in marriage, but he was so awkward I didn’t realize he was serious. At least, not at first.

As the end of the semester drew closer, I realized he actually wanted to marry me! The closer to his graduation we got, the better the idea sounded.

Okay, I was twenty-one and had no idea if being married would really work.

On the other hand, he needed a green card to stay in the USA legally.

And we were in love. At least we thought we were in love, thanks to all the endorphins that were bouncing around our brains and making our bodies tingle.

I decided to go for it.

I still had my standards, however. If we were going to get married, I needed a proper proposal. So we drove around Nautical Mile, this lovely shopping and dining area perched right on the water. Burak found the ideal spot, dropped to one knee, and asked me to be his wife. Of course, I said yes, and he pulled out this gorgeous ring and slipped it on my finger. It wasn’t an engagement ring (I didn’t want anyone to know I was getting married so soon), but a “promise” ring—the promise was that he would give me my big white wedding “someday” after we eloped at City Hall.

I still wear that ring every day. It’s not that I’m still in love with him, but the ring is beautiful, and it will always mean a lot to me. Plus, it’s a great story to tell my kids someday: “Your mother eloped with a foreign guy four months after meeting him—yes, it was very exciting and sexy, but maybe make sure your potential spouse speaks English before you take the plunge!”

I took my best friend and designated witness, Fiona, with me to pick out a dress for the ceremony. Luckily, my part-time job was as the cosmetics girl at the Estee Lauder counter at the local mall. That meant I had an employee discount—hey, I was a college girl on a budget! I pulled a dress off the rack and got ready for my “big day.”

A few days later, Fiona, Burak, his best friend, and I met up at City Hall. It all seemed so surreal. Was I really going to go through with this?

When the judge started reading the vows, I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was as though I knew what I was doing was wrong. That it would not end well. That I had long passed the point where I could stop it.

And I just burst out laughing.

It’s not the first time—it’s a nervous reaction I’ve had all my life. Then again, I probably wasn’t the first person to laugh through their City Hall wedding, and I wouldn’t be the last. We were just two crazy kids from opposite sides of the globe “in love.” What could possibly go wrong? Isn’t life supposed to be spontaneous and fun?

That first year was fun—incredibly fun. Our marriage was a complete secret. Only Fiona knew the truth. I kept living on campus until I graduated, passing Burak off as my “boyfriend.” I even had the pledges in my sorority perform for him at his birthday party. No one knew my tall, dark, sexy boyfriend was actually my husband.

After I graduated, we moved into a nice apartment in Nassau County together. Burak left his job as a pizza delivery boy and bought his own business: A women’s shoe store that I helped him name. My feet never looked so good! Then he took me home to Turkey to meet his entire family, which was my first trip there.

It was as though he was making me part of the family.

Burak’s family lived right on the Bosporus, this beautiful waterway that runs through Istanbul. It divides the city in half: one side is in Europe and the other is in Asia, which was just incredibly cool. Not many other cities span two continents. His family’s neighborhood was like something out of a storybook. It was old and quaint, with narrow, winding streets. The houses, which were more like apartment buildings, sat perched on top of the hills overlooking the water.

Everyone in the village knew everyone else. And Burak’s family lived all together in one of the apartment buildings with one aunt and uncle on the first floor; another aunt, uncle, and cousins on the second; and his parents and brother up on top. It felt warm and loving, like a real family—everything I never had growing up.

The highlight of the whole trip was the “ring ceremony,” which I guess is the Turkish version of an engagement. It was held at the cafe across the street, which was owned by the neighbors and attached to their house. I was surrounded by Turkish people, so I couldn't understand what anyone was saying. Nevertheless, I felt welcomed into Burak’s family and culture with open arms.

The ceremony was beautiful. Burak and I wore rings that were attached with a red ribbon. Then we cut the ribbon together and all of his family and friends and the villagers cheered and started dancing around us.

It was magical.

I had never felt so welcomed and wanted in my life. In case that wasn’t incredible enough, we finished off the evening yachting around the beautiful city, the lights twinkling all around us. I guess that is even more romantic than a kiss under the Brooklyn Bridge.

As amazing as that trip was, my return to Turkey a year and a half later for my long-dreamed-of, big, white wedding was an even bigger deal.

Once again, Fiona was my maid of honor, which meant she was on dress duty again. This was no off-the-rack special this time; this was a real wedding dress. Amazingly, the very first one I tried on was “the one.” We both knew it instantly. Fiona’s mother made my veil by hand, which meant so much to me. I chose gorgeous blue dresses for my four bridesmaids. The most important piece, which I chose to tie it all together with, was my bouquet.

For years, I had dreamed of carrying a bouquet of red roses with a pearl inside each one. I had been talking to Burak about it forever—the whole time we were planning the wedding—and I even found a florist in Turkey who would create this dream bouquet for me. The plan was that Burak would pick up the bouquet the night before the ceremony.

He forgot.

I don’t know if he was just so swept up in all the excitement and all the family or what, but he had to know how important this bouquet was to me. I had only reminded him at least 100 times. Therefore, the day of our wedding was somewhat stressful, especially because my bouquet didn’t arrive until half an hour before the ceremony.

But, it showed up, and everything else was going perfectly. My father, may he rest in peace, my sister, my friends, and everyone I loved made the trip to Turkey and was there by my side.

The wedding itself was the stuff of legends. Like something right out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but more elegant and less, well, big and fat. The celebration was at a beautiful venue outside on the water. It seemed the entire village turned out for the celebration.

It was more than a wedding. It was a production. It started with my entrance—my bridesmaids and I arrived at the ceremony via a luxury yacht owned by Burak’s friend Ahmed.

Ahmed is a story in itself. He had started getting hot and heavy with my bridesmaid Zoe, and somehow ended up taking all my girls rug shopping at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. At some point during the mandatory price haggling, he decided to drive a hard bargain by pulling out a gun and waving it the face of the rug shop owner!

Let’s just say my girls got very good prices on floor coverings.

But I digress. Back at the ceremony, I stepped off the yacht, and my dad was there to greet me. My girls walked down the aisle in their beautiful blue dresses, then my dad took my arm and we followed. It was utterly enchanting.

Except for this one weird thing.

This wasn’t an ordinary wedding, and one of the “unique” aspects was that we didn’t want ordinary music. Instead of marching down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride” or “The Four Seasons” or any of the typical music you usually hear at weddings, I walked down the aisle to a song Burak had chosen especially for me. It was a Moby song called “Porcelain.”

The song starts with his dreams of death, moves into him (accidentally) lying to and hurting his partner, and wraps up with him ending the relationship and asking his partner to confess to never having wanted him in the first place.

Romantic, right?

Okay, so maybe Burak’s English still wasn’t up to par. Maybe he just really, really liked the song.

Or, maybe it was a sign.

Honestly, I didn’t notice. I was swept up in how perfect, romantic, and glamorous the whole thing was. When my father and I reached the end of the aisle, Burak and I were seated together at a long table with gorgeous linens and the magnificent Istanbul skyline behind us. Then a man, who I assume was the village judge, stood and said some things in Turkish. (I can’t be sure, I was just trying to learn the language on the plane ride over.) I just said yes (or “evet” in Turkish) and hoped it was the right answer. Then my friend Crystal read some vows I wrote in English, and Burak and I signed our names in the big huge book that I assume was the wedding register. I threw my beautiful rose bouquet into the water and that was it. The deal was sealed.

According to Turkish law, we were legally man and wife.

At that moment, fireworks went off behind us. I didn’t even realize they were part of the ceremony. Burak and his family had planned the entire wedding. It was as if we were in a fairytale.

The reception was equally beautiful. I made the rounds with my “new” husband, thanking each guest for coming. As is Turkish custom, each guest placed gold jewelry or coins in a special silk bag when I greeted them, which is a lovely tradition, but after two hours, I started getting tired. And hungry. Moreover, I sort of felt as though I were trick or treating for lira (Turkish currency).

All I really wanted was a good stiff drink. To my shock, Burak said I couldn’t have one. He insisted I stay completely sober so that I could “appropriately” entertain our guests.

No drinks at my own wedding? Seriously?

Looking back, that definitely should have been a red flag. The second, at least, after “Porcelain.” It was a party, however, and it was beautiful, and my bridesmaids snuck me drinks in the bathroom, which was kind of naughty and fun. Because I didn’t get a chance to eat one bite of food at my own wedding, after starving myself down twenty pounds (the skinniest I’ve ever been in my life) to fit into my dress, those few drinks in the bathroom were more than enough.

(Skinniest I've ever been in my life at my "magical" Istanbul wedding)

The next day we left on our honeymoon. We went to Bodrum, which is this absolutely gorgeous European vacation resort in southern Turkey.

When I say we, I don’t just mean my “new” husband and me.

I mean his entire family.

Apparently, the clan I had married into traveled in packs. Burak’s brother, cousins, and friends all made the trip to Bodrum with us. Not only that, but the men stayed together almost 24/7, hanging out during every waking hour.

(Seriously, it was as if his entire village followed us on our honeymoon)

As a result, I barely saw my husband all week. That was not what I expected from my long-awaited honeymoon. When I complained and asked Burak to maybe spend some of the time with me, he got mad and snapped back at me that I just had a beautiful wedding and that should have been enough.

It wasn’t much of a honeymoon. We only had sex once.

I hoped things would get better when we went home to Long Island and got back to our normal lives, but that’s when things really started to get weird.

Burak’s family followed us home.

Apparently, when I signed my name in that big book, I was not just legally marrying Burak, but all of his relatives as well. Soon, the pack began to migrate to eastern shores. First, it was just his brother. Then, his parents. Whoever came had never heard of a hotel room—they all camped out in our little two-bedroom apartment.

These bonds of matrimony weren’t limited to family, either. It seemed like anyone with a Turkish passport and some connection to my new husband was welcome to crash at our pad. Unfortunately, this included one friend who used to lock himself in our small guest room, smoking cigarette after cigarette and banging his 30-years-younger assistant. This made it especially difficult to put my smiley face on and pretend I didn’t know anything during our many dinners with his wife and children.

Yikes!

Meanwhile, Burak threw himself into his business, to the point that he started traveling a lot. Meaning, I was left alone, sometimes for days on end. Or, I wouldn’t be alone, because his parents would be staying in our apartment for one of their two- or three-month-long visits. Then I had company—but it wasn’t the kind of company I wanted.

Through it all, I worked full time. I would come home tired and depressed, with no husband to greet me, and plop down on the couch and not want to move. Burak’s mom, who was constantly smiling and spoke zero English, would put her hand on my head and say something in Turkish. She was incredibly sweet—she was a housewife that cooked amazing Turkish food from sunup to sundown (something I still miss to this day). In fact, both of his parents were awesome people.

But this wasn’t the life I signed up for.

Things with Burak kept changing—and not for the better. When we were first together, he always spoke English and made sure he included me in the conversation. As time went on, he just spoke Turkish when his friends were around, so I was completely cut out of the discussion.

There were times when we could go a whole week without really talking.

If I dared to ask where he was or tell him I missed him that just made things worse. He’d tune me out at home and stay away for even longer on his trips. He did manage to communicate that he still expected me to have breakfast on the table at 6:00 a.m., however. I had no problem cooking if he just appeared on a semi-regular basis.

But that didn’t happen.

I thought adopting an animal would make me less lonely. Burak agreed to a cat—but only if it was a Turkish cat, which I did manage to find through the local rescue group. Sadly, a thousand lint rollers later, I realized Diva wasn’t going to fix my marriage.

After a year, Burak was well on his way to building an international shoe business (with my support!) and was spending more and more time away. His homecoming routine had become:

• Putting his headphones on as soon as he walked in
• Turning on a Turkish movie
• Tuning me out.

I was miserable.

I was only twenty-four years old, and I was crying myself to sleep almost every night. Honestly, it had been going on pretty much since we got back from our big, beautiful, perfect wedding. I couldn’t believe the same Burak I fell in love with was treating me like a piece of furniture. How could things be so different after all the passion and romance we had at the beginning? Maybe cultural differences were to blame, but at that point, I really didn’t care. I wanted to be treated like a person!

On our fourth Thanksgiving, one of Burak’s friends invited us to a holiday gathering at his mosque in New Jersey. This was not my first time in a mosque—I respected Burak’s culture because I loved him, and I'm open-minded. I went to weddings and holidays in the mosque. I even took my shoes off and wore one of those “babushkas” my friends and I called the head wraps when I was inside.

This day was a little different.

The T-Day gathering itself was nice—a lot of people, a ton of food, and music. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable. I noticed how the men all hung out with the men smoking cigars, while the women all stayed with the women in the kitchen. This was not my idea of a good time. But when I tried to sit next to Burak, he would shoo me back to the kitchen with the rest of the women.

Open-minded or not, I couldn’t accept the message that I was “beneath” my husband. This was 21st century America, for God’s sake!

Then again, it didn’t really matter whom I was hanging out with, because no one, male or female, made any attempt to talk to me. At least not in English.

So yeah, I was in kind of a shitty mood and not feeling particularly thankful that Thanksgiving. My thoughts must have shown on my face—I must have looked mean, or angry or annoyed that I wasn't able to hang out with my husband on Thanksgiving—because that night, Burak chewed me out.

(What I was thinking in my head a Burak chewed me out)

It was the start of a very un-merry holiday season. By the time Christmas rolled around, it was obvious our relationship was nose-diving into the great abyss. Burak had promised to decorate the Christmas tree with me—I felt like he was the only family I had since my dad married my crazy stepmother—but he didn’t show up. That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks.

It was over.

A few days later, we sat down for “the talk.” We agreed that our marriage wasn't going to go the distance. Since we were young and just starting out, we decided to do the responsible thing and keep living together and support each other financially until we could go our separate ways.

We stuck to the bargain for a while, but all awkward, painful things must come to an end. Eventually I reached my breaking point and all hell broke loose. Burak hadn’t been home—let alone given me any sort of sign he was even alive—for three days. I waited and waited and waited, until I finally called him and screamed, “Pack up your shit and get out!”

I couldn't believe those words came out of my mouth. I had no clue how I was going to survive on my own. I didn’t know if I could make a car payment, let alone take care of myself, but I knew he had to go.

Burak came home that night with his brother, who held several, large, industrial-sized garbage bags, and they loaded all his worldly possessions into them.

We sat on the couch and cried together. Then, as if it never happened, he was gone.

Yes, it was sad. Just writing this story, I feel sad. However, I was also hopeful. After spending almost three years of my life crying and depressed, I had a chance to start over, instead of spending another fifty years in married misery. I was only twenty-four. I still had my whole life ahead of me.

The only thing left was to make it legal. In order to expedite the proceedings and minimize the cost factor, we agreed to share a lawyer—one we saw advertised on Queens Boulevard. Less than $900 later, we were divorced.

Then, almost without taking a breath, Burak married someone else and divorced her within a year. Leaving her with a baby!

Burak would later tell me that he made a big mistake divorcing me, that his parents missed me, that if we’d only had a baby together our marriage would have been saved.

Oh, God. Creating spawn with him would have been a life sentence.

Sometimes I feel bad when he says he still shows people our wedding video and brags that we had the best wedding out of all of his friends. He also still claims he’s going to buy me that Benz he promised me when his business makes it big. I’m still waiting, but I did get custody of the cat. Ironically, I recently ran into Burak getting out of a taxi cab. It turns out he lives four blocks away from me and is on his third marriage! I hope wife #3 is permitted to stay in the same room as him at Thanksgiving. =o)

(This is Diva)

So… What did I learn from getting married at the ripe young age of twenty-one?

• Look before you leap. Don’t confuse the tingles of a new relationship with “true love.” (This applies at any age.)
• Both women and men deserve to be treated with respect.
• Adopting an animal or making a baby will not save your marriage.
• If your groom picks a wedding song with the lyrics “this is goodbye,” it just might be.