Picture it: Levittown, 1980-every-summer. A young girl is watching the sun sink lower in the sky and waiting for someone to take her to the carnival down the block. Her grandparents and her father have probably drawn straws. Who gets to hold her hair back this time? Because she’s gonna barf. But she’s too excited to eat. So it’s the dry heaves. And full on gagging, how attractive. And she’s barking. That’s a nervous cough. But she could be doing a duet with the dog. Because she loves him like a brother.
Point is, she’s so excited, she’s gagging. How attractive. She leaves the house clutching a paper bag, breathing into it on the way. Except she’s not co-ordinated enough for counting and breathing, it makes her dizzy. She gags. Again.
That little girl was me.
Fast forward to a few nights ago. I’m sitting at the computer, kinda obsessively checking my email. Impatiently waiting for a response from our videographer. Yes, we have one of those. Because I’m American. Apparently. Who knew? You can tell because the one thing I’ve insisted on is a wedding video. Everyone has said ‘that’s because you’re American.’ It’s just that I want to remember everyone’s faces. Especially my husband’s. I want to share the looks and the thoughts and the moments with people I love who won’t be there. That list is getting too long.
But anyway. There will be a video.
There’s a menu now, too. My mother and I even, shall we say, had words over the food. Which turned into a cultural debate. Which reminded me again that I was a third-culture kid, who is now an adult planning a multi-culture wedding. If you want to see if we pull it off, there will be a video. Of course.
And there will be flowers. Because I wrote some more emails. The first one went like this: My husband-to-be is severely allergic to all the flowers that have ever grown, and I only like a few of them anyway. I would really like The Dude to enjoy our wedding, and not sneeze/wheeze through it. Tearing up is fine, even encouraged. But we must avoid the very loud Sneezes of Doom.’
And so, most of our flowers are paper. I can’t link to them because that could be filed under Cart Before Horse. But they are awesome.
The list so far is video, menu, flowers. And freaking table linens. I haven’t thought of table linens since my Nana had an actual linen closet. Because that’s how she rolled.
Anyway, there’s linens.
And a cake. On Saturday, Sarge and I went looking at paint samples to bring the cake people and say, match these. Yes, really. This was not a fake mission. And it looked like this:
And after the beer:
Video, menu, flowers cake…and linens.
There’s even been some movement on the shoes.
There’s favours, too. But we don’t want to give them away until the wedding. Because that’s how it goes.
And I’ve spent a lot of time putting together a playlist. And crying. And that’s before Sarge vetoes half the songs. Except maybe this one.
I’m also camped out and waiting for the postman every morning. Doing my best Olivia Twist with ‘Please Sir, can I have some more (RSVPs). You can keep the Nos. Because there will be no depression in this house.’ Or something.
I’ve even had my second dress-fitting, followed swiftly by my Bridal Crew Weekend. Where I spent a lot of time telling my future sister-in-law, ‘I love your brother A LOT.’ I s’pose that’s a good start. And I wasn’t even drunk. OK, maybe that one time.
And that looked like this:
As I write this, there are 38 days, 20 hours and 16 minutes til Sarge and I get married. And I’m not sleeping well. I’m in bed thinking about the video, the flowers, the cake, the favours. Last week Sarge asked me why I couldn’t sleep.
‘My inner-child needs a paper bag to breathe into.’ I’m nervous. And excited. And a little bit more of both.
But the list of things making me hyperventilate at three in the morning have nothing to do with being married. I have the best future-husband on all the planets. The vows and the rings and the life thing, bring that on. I’m good with that.
As for the wedding, I must remember to breathe, and enjoy it. And if I cough/bark/gag, it just means I’m really happy.