Day two of holding down the new couch is coming to an end and in between staring blankly at the romantic comedies I’ve seen 600 times on the movie channels and gazing out the window, I’m plucking a tissue and letting out a loud honk with voluminous results. I’m always amazed at the amount of snot one human head can hold. I blame the airplane…and the late nights mixed with early mornings…and the shaking of more than half a dozen strangers' hands…and the stress of non-stop on the go. Wedding planning is in full swing and after four full days in Kansas City, a full-blown cold and a future husband that has left me alone for basically two weeks for work, I’m ready to throw all this shit out the window and elope.
While I usually bask in my time alone, the pride of buying our first house split 50/50 between the two of us – something I never thought I’d be able to do (go grad school and busting ass) – turns into “Oh-shit-what-was-that-noise” when night falls. The newness of the new house gets the best of me with all those not yet familiar settling creaks and cracks and I usually spend the majority of the night staring bug eyed at the ceiling when Pat’s gone. However, I’ll most likely use my sickness to thoroughly drug myself this time. My snot filled sinuses and my frayed nerves will rejoice.
One thing I will not be doing for a least a few days is pulling my wedding planning supplies out of my backpack, which have been sitting there since our last meeting on Saturday morning. They consist of my notebook, which I lovingly adorned with images from the movie Bridesmaids and anti Bridezilla messages, along with a giant wedding book that I bought early on. Online reviews called it “The Wedding Bible.” I call it “The Big Book of How to Boss People Around for Bridezillas.” I imagine the author is a pointy, middle-of-the-summer-cardigan-wearing, Southern lady with overly Aqua Netted, cotton candy hair, that would offer me sweet tea, gasp and “teehee” at my behavior, then talk about me behind my back. It wasn’t a total waste of money, it’s just so full of stuffy etiquette and things I would never do that I find myself skipping through most of it. “The Quick and Dirty Wedding Guide” is surprisingly more my style despite my hyper organization. Organization does not a bridezilla make. In fact, I’m very content with telling the professionals the gist of what I (and we) like, then leaving the rest of it up to them.
Besides a handful of vendors never bothering to call me back, the only other thing I’m having trouble with are all those decisions. Oh, the horror of first world problems. Wouldn’t it be nice to be rich enough to hire somebody to not only set up the tables, cook the food, pour the drinks, but also make all the decisions for you, too? Yeah, not really. I just wish that all of them were as easy as others.
My dress was probably the most interesting of all the decisions. After ignoring my impulse to go straight to the Internet because of the usual worries of the "what if I hate it and can’t return it" kind, I endured the bridal industry norm of dressing room attendants and ill fitting, sample size dresses. I remember standing in the tiny dressing room trying to make small talk with a large woman that spelled her name with a “y” where there clearly should have been an “i” while wearing nothing but a thong and a dumpy, borrowed girdle. This was followed up with dresses made of cheap material in huge sizes that hung on me like burlap sacks. Y obsessed dressing room lady didn’t even bother to bust out those clamp thingys that look more like they belong in a mechanic’s garage than in a bridal shop to which my friend replied when I told her, “what a whore!” I must agree since it’s just the perfect formula for making a soon-to-be bride feel ever so lovely in the “most beautiful dress she’s ever seen” for the “best day of her life.” Nothing says bea-u-ti-ful like your grandma's underpants and a tent for a garment. Dresses do weird things to your body anyway, then throw in all that other nonsense and it’s disastrous. I remember staring into the mirror, the giant, nasty bra doing nothing for me as it was showing in all of the dresses, while my bony sternum stared back at me. I immediately flashed back to my 11-year-old self reading “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret,” and willing myself to grow boobs. Of course, at 30-years-old, my boobs are fine, just not in a shitty dress paired with even shittier undergarments. You’d think the bridal industry would get a fucking clue.
After seeing enough crunchy tulle monstrosities, another complaint of mine since, you know, not everybody wants to look like a snow beast a la My Big, Fat Greek Wedding (which consisted of about two dress stores), I found a simple, silk vintage-inspired dress – exactly what I wanted - online with free shipping and free returns. Throw in the fact that there was only one left in my size and it was several hundred dollars under budget and I took it as a sign then bought it immediately. It’s perfect, of course, and the easiest decision I ever made difficult on myself.
I guess with all the other decisions that need to be made, I just have to look for a sign – one that reveals the best deal, while also being the easiest for me. Too bad I can’t pick a caterer based on how good they make my boobs look…or can I?
And, now my head weighs roughly 45 pounds, mostly snot, and I must go to bed, but in other news this exists:
My love of turtles stems from the pet turtle I had growing up named Myrtle. This gives me a strong urge to find another Myrtle and take up knitting.
Annnnd, that’s the drugs kicking in. Goodnight.