I seem to be doing what little posting I’m doing at night lately. Why could that be? To escape the seating charts, placecards, thank you notes, and return address labels? To take a break from song lists, “must take” photos, and appetizer selections? Maybe?
Good christ, this is a maelstrom. I’ve got 8 days left, and there is still so much to do. I feel like I should be taking the whole next week off from work, forget this “five day weekend” bullshit. Last Friday, I left work at five and ran around like a madwoman until seven thirty buying bridesmaids gifts; last Saturday, I had my hair trial, we met with the photographer, met with the priest, and finalized details about his first communion (!!!) which is happening this weekend. On Sunday, I left the apartment at noon and did more shopping for all eight of my bridesmaids, got shoes for the rehearsal dinner and pumps for whenever, got my makeup done at Sephora with Sabrina, ate barbecue and made placecards. The Sephora trip set me back THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS. That’s a three and two zeroes. That’s like, my car payment. And cocktails.
Monday we took a long lunch and applied for our wedding license, then, in the evening, I updated our guest list and emailed all the late responders; Tuesday I worked with my old boss until ten thirty, came home, and worked on thank you notes until midnight; Wednesday I called our cantor, emailed the wedding party a timetable of events, and considered renting a bus for the post-reception party party, an idea that was quickly struck down, much to my relief. Then my almost-husband and I went out for restaurant week at Rialto, where I proceeded to have what was possibly the worst accidental drunk of my life.
which brings us to today. Another frantic trip to Paper Source for our program covers, thank you cards, a few gold-ink pens, and a beanbag; a side stop at Filene’s Basement where I bought three different sets of wedding jewelry, to the tune of some one hundred and eighty dollars; lingerie shopping at Victoria’s Secret, aka “the foaming mouth of hell that has nothing but trampy whore clothes”; and another trip to Sephora. Where I spent another 25 bucks. Plus ten for parking.
Still, I have all this work left to do, and I’m sitting here blogging and drinking wine. This is the real crux of the weirdness. Like, in eight days, I’ll be married. It’ll be a completely different stage of my life. It’ll be the time to buy a station wagon and have kids or something. And even though I should probably be meditating on the enormity of it all, even though I should be bridezilla or weeping or fussing over menu cards, I’m just sitting here. Blogging. And drinking.
So, really, what will change?