Weddingbee Blog

“Don’t you ever think about anything else?” he asked in all honesty and naivete, not knowing the kind of wrath that question could invoke.

We were laying in bed and I’d just asked if he’d thought about what the groomsmen should wear, because the guy on the TV commercial looked pretty good in dark slacks with a white shirt and tie.

I just stared at him, not sure how to respond, but certain that I felt offended, upset, annoyed, and maybe, just maybe, like he had a point. I don’t think about much else these days, yet I feel like I am justified in obsessing a little. We’re four months away from our wedding at our home and I’m only now doing any real planning—and a flurry of it, I’ll admit.

“Honey, we’re only four months away from our wedding, and I’m only now doing any real planning,” I explained. “Many weddings take much longer than that to plan.” He thought that four months seemed like plenty of time, and then he said it, his second dangerous phrase of the night:

“I’m sure it’ll all come together.”

Um, yea.

I’m sure you do think it’ll all come together, since you’re not doing any of it unless I spoon feed the topics to you, complete with well-researched images and well thought out considerations. I’m sure you do just assume that weddings happen, since you are male and men tend to think ridiculous things like that. I’m sure you do believe that it’ll be fine, just like you thought that getting married at our home would be simple (I agreed because while it’s not simple, it is romantic).

So I let loose. Without taking the time or energy to adjust my phrasing or delivery to limit the load of stress I was about to throw at him, I blurted out every single thing that had to be decided, from how many tables and what size and where they’ll go, to where people will park and what they’ll wear and how they’ll know to be here. Y’all know the drill, but evidently he was clueless, no matter how many times I’ve explained that weddings require a thousand little details, all of which are absolutely necessary. Meaning, even if you cut out every DIY, every sweet touch, every bit of personalization, you still have to decide what time and when people should get there and what they’ll do and where they’ll sit. Decide to host the thing yourselves at your home, and whoo, boy, things get crazy at an exponential rate. Where will we stash the litter boxes? Will the kitchen ever be in photos (because if it will be… um, it won’t be, we’ll have to put screens in the doorways)? OMG WE NEED TO GET THE ELECTRICAL SYSTEM UPDATED ASAP.

I thought I’d be saved from much of this because in the end, I just want to marry my man. I thought I could avoid choosing color schemes or counting napkins or dealing with contracts by making specific decisions: all white, disposable, no vendors. That was before I found out that whites don’t match (so then they look dingy), people want you to guide them in how to dress (or else they feel a bit lost) and you cannot avoiding working with at least a few vendors (hello, tent). Not caring about the color scheme doesn’t absolve you from having to, in the end, choose something. Anything, in fact, but something.

And saying, “I want this” and plopping down an inspiration picture doesn’t work nearly as well as I’d hoped, either. “Exactly this, or like this?” Of course, they don’t have exactly that, and anyway, neither do I. I could hire a wedding planner, but my issue isn’t with managing the tasks (I take professional pride in my ability to make and manage lists of details and tasks that all rely on each other, thankyouverymuch), it’s with deciding, nee, caring enough to decide what I want. Everything I see would work, ya know? And any of it would be beautiful.

And my guy? Bless that Y chromosome, he’s oblivious. As long as it’s not too girly, he’s fine with it, and if it gets him out of having to be involved, he’ll even take the girly. So we have two people who want something nice and fun and appropriate without having any idea what that means to them. And one of them isn’t planning to do any planning, because he can’t fathom that it’s even needed.

I’m going to have to get over my unwillingness to drag the mister into this, have a nice, calm, “HERE’S HOW LIFE WORKS, MISTER” discussion (there will be wine), and then ignore the eye-rolling that will commence thereafter. Yes, we need to get our registry together, and yes, you need to be involved. Yes, you have to look at the invitations if for no other reason than that I don’t need to deal with the fact that you think “with regrets” is smart ass-y after they’ve been printed. Yes, you need to decided what the groomsmen will be wearing right now so that I can email them myself, because I know you don’t believe that it needs to be done at all, much less soon, and I don’t ever want to have to talk about it again. If we’re in this whole life thing together, it’s time to be in this whole ball-of-wedding-stress world together, too. He’s escaped it for long enough.

Whew. That was a long rant. Your turn.

How have you dealt with what I’ll call “The Y Chromosome Syndrome” - the one that leads one human being to say to another, “Relax. You’re worrying too much. It’ll all work out somehow”?