On Tuesday Mom and I spent the day visiting stationers in the Los Angeles metro area. Yesterday I drove two and a half hours each way for a site visit to the location and a final tweak to the contract. Today I have appointments from the crack of dawn until sunset to try on puffy, white dresses. If you haven’t put two and two together by now, I’m getting married.
Hitched. Hog-tied. Leg-shackled. Balled and chained. Buying the cow. Signing the death contract. Living happily ever after. Whatever you wanna call it, I’m signing up. The thing is, at the beginning of this wild ride, I knew exactly what I wanted; small, intimate, personal, reflective. And now it’s like the thing has a life of its own and I have to keep jumping on its back and wrangling it down onto the ground.
People kept telling me to elope and have a party later, but no, I wanted to have my nearest and dearest there to witness the event. Now I realize that planning a wedding for twenty, or planning a wedding for two-hundred, is the same amount of work. But I am determined to give this wedding beast the what-for, the heave-ho, and the bigger is not better speach. I’m going to teach it that not every celebration needs tulle and organza and cherubs throwing rosebuds. Just a little magic, a little elbow grease, and good friends. The rest is all, as they say, chocolate pudding.