We are down to 75 days. Doesn't it sound scary to say it that way? In 75 days I will be married. To Corey. That means I have to deal with his mess for eternity, whereas for the next 75 days I can still decide I can't handle carbon fiber frames on the living room floor.
Knowing we have that little time remaining is making me panic. People are starting to send reply cards to the invitations. Contracts are coming in the mail. Clothing is arriving from various people. I'm having a wedding.
What scares me most about this situation is that I'm starting to know what I'm talking about with all of this stuff. I could tell you a lot of things about buttercream icing and why trans fats make for a substandard wedding cake. I know which body types look prettiest in which dresses. I know some flower names and when they are in season and what they are called when gathered together in various formations. I know what sauces go best with salmon depending whether you are serving it poached or grilled.
This knowledge base, more than the actual combining legally with Corey, makes me feel weird. I didn't want to have anything to do with hypoallergenic makeup or embroidered yarmulkes. But I do and now I will forever be a person who knows exactly what to do in the event that a friend needs to rent designer port-o-potties to service 240 hineys. There is no turning back now. I am a bride of the fluffy meringue and regal variety, minus the glowing calm.
After years of nomadic temporary employment, advanced degrees, and chocolate ice cream, a rugger with a love of knitting and a cyclist with no domestic skills signed a Ketubah and bought a house in Pittsburgh.
2 comments:
iv'e thought of you as regal before...but never fluffy meringue!
yo, i am going to show up at this.
Do i need to send you guys stuff?
immaturely yours,
Soupie
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