When I was 7, I could not decide which uber-girly creature to be for halloween, so I was a combination fairy-princess-bride. They all respresented beautiful, graceful women in fluffy, pretty dresses and some fashion of sparkly or sheer headwear with long flowing hair underneath. Later that year I bought my first white dress and veil for my first communion and it couldn't be long and poofy enough for me (even though I ended up in something very plain because it was the only thing that fit my husky frame).
At 12, I fell in love with the wretched drug store scent "Navy" and decided I would marry a Naval Officer, with navy blue bridesmaid dresses, and wear my signature scent. Something no one would have seen or imagined the likes of before...and it would be perfect.
At 21 I decided I had met my future husband and planned weddings for us on a regular basis...sketching details in women's studies classes of all places, refining what my favorite flower was, and again, idealizing perfection.
Now, at 30, I am engaged to get married. I love him with everything in me and am thrilled at the idea of being his wife and a member of his family. The proposal was perfectly fitting for US...he hid the ring in a pair of Ugg boots I opened Christmas morning. However, by Christmas night, I turned off my phone. I was tired of calling people and figuring out how to throw my "news" into the conversation. I was tired of their questions - which seemed ridiculous considering I had been engaged for a matter of hours (location? date? kids right away?) Wedding magazines morphed from a form of girly innocent porn to a finger waving over my head that I was behind on my to-do's before I even got started.
Talking about flowers and decor and details holds my interest for roughly 20 seconds...I know what I want and I just want it put together. I don't know how to hold my hand when people want to see my ring. I feel funny referring to my not-quite boyfriend and not-quite husband with a snooty sounding french term. The idea of tons of people, all with two eyes on me, does not make me feel royal or special...just self conscious and more than a little anxious.
Regardless of all this...that husky little girl is teaming up with my inner Martha Stewart and forcing me to run at the ideal and jump in with both feet. Then 30 year old Katie remembers what this money could do for (here's where I should say the planet, or the victims of such-and-such, but alas...) ME. The weekend couch marathon queen figures out there is a Saturday that I don't get to myself. But then we book another vendor, or discuss another song, or I just see the excitement in my (insert french snoot term)'s face, and it feels like it will be ok - plus that's what my therapist says to keep repeating....
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