Weddingbee Blog

A year and a half ago when I started to read Weddingbee I always wondered: what makes brides so crazy in the weeks leading up to the wedding? I know it’s a stressful time, that much I could gather, but I wasn’t quite sure where it all erupted. Bride after bride got married and there always seemed to be this elusive black hole of undefined stress. When I started blogging I vowed to myself that I would try my best to capture the good, bad and ugly of it all. I don’t mean to be a negative Nancy but I do want to paint a realistic picture. Think of me as Picasso—before he got all fancy. My hope is that you’ll be able to learn from my mistakes so as to better prepare yourself for the month leading up to your wedding. Without further ado, the crazed chronicles of Miss Zebra.

This summer I visited Sir Isaac Newton in Westminster Abbey. It’s only fitting that he return the favor, except he sent someone else instead. He sent his buddy Murphy. Oh… you didn’t know? They met in Law School. Just trust me, okay? Murphy sucks.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table, rubs his boogers on my couch, and he shits in the kitchen sink. He’s a real ball buster with a bad case of B.O. Today, Murphy and the wind helped me dent my co-workers car. Unbeknownst to me until 8 hours later, my car was also damaged. This is right on the coattails of last Tuesday when I hit a patch of ice. I was able to stop but the car behind me was not so lucky. So, if you’re keeping tally, that is 3 cars damaged in the past week. Murphy can show up at any time, but I’m already feeling a bit stressed from the wedding. This visit will inevitably be associated with the wedding. I hate you Murph.

Murph?! Is0 that you?

It’s the questions. It’s the constant barrage of when’s this, where’s that, how would you like this? I find myself answering the same questions 12 times. Oftentimes, the questions deal with shit that I don’t quite particularly care about in the first place. Forgive me Wedding Gods but who the hell cares about table linens? Yeah I’m stressed. I’m telling you I’m stressed so that you’ll quit with the questions. Can you do me the favor and not tell me that I’m stressed? I know I say it. This is where being a woman is confusing for me too but I also make total sense in my head. You see, I’m telling you I’m stressed so you’ll back off a little bit. You telling me that I’m stressed is only smacking me in the face with the truth—that I’m not hiding it very well. Yes, I can’t remember how to spell my last name but could you humor me with a “we all do it?” Can you give me that much? Furthermore, the worst part is when I do something out of genuine mistake rather than stress-induced coma and someone says it. Hey, I’m still human, I’m allowed, so quit it!

I know, I haven’t really pinpointed the route of my issue yet. In the last week I’ve lost my cool with my mother—in front of my FMIL, dented 3 cars, and went to the beauty salon on the incorrect day. Is that clear enough? All these little mistakes continue to compound into time and money lost. My hair looks like ass because I’m pushing back my appointments for the wedding. I’ve got a spritely case of acne all over my face, chest, and back (I haven’t had clear skin since before Christmas). I’m trying to avoid wearing makeup to cure this dreaded acne. I’ve got a severe case of Vitamin D deficiency—that would be my skin in general. Did I mention that I’m a picker? New scars, yay! I can’t figure out an amazing gift to properly thank my wonderful bridesmaids for all they’ve done for me. Oh yeah, and I’m on the rag.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Although it is harder to count my blessings, I find they are still there. Knowing that the people you love will always be there for you regardless of your temper tantrums means the world. My cure for the wedding bell blues are as follows: Zeb, amazing sisters, adorable nephews, Dance Central, apologies, the Titanic theme song (sang terribly at volumes only dogs can here), screaming in the car, and creating a schedule to answer all those pesky questions.

I’m feeling much better after a cry and Zeb pep talk. This certainly won’t be the last edition of Crazed Chronicles, unfortunately. Again, my hope is that you can better understand the origin of stress so that you do not repeat my mistakes. My plight is not a pity party for one.

…and Mom, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m in my happy place—Mexico. I’ve got a grip on it. It will pass. kloveyou