I’m afraid that all of my choices I’m making for the wedding will be wrong.
I could barely get my mouth to form the words, but that was it. I was afraid that my wedding wouldn’t be “good enough”. This was crux of my issue”¦ the thought that had been gnawing at the back of my brain for a few days (or maybe weeks). Either way”¦ it had been there for a while, and some days it decided to rear its ugly head. This was one of them. It had been one of those nights, when it seemed like my to-do list was too long, my days were too short, and every decision that we had made had to be re-decided because of one issue or another.
”¦ Linens? Satin l’amour or bichon crush? And what about the cake table? Speaking of cake, is 100 servings enough, or should I call them back and order 150? There was a cake on Green Wedding Shoes the other day that I liked”¦ maybe that’s a better design option”¦
I readily admit that I put the pressure on myself. I read too many wedding blogs ”“ there’s too many beautiful weddings out there. Others see this as inspiration, but I saw it as a gigantic yard stick to measure our wedding against. I saw brides who have done it differently: greener, less structured, more unique, better. I’ve done this since I was little ”“ I’ve always wanted things to be perfect. I’ve always cared just a little bit too much about what other people think.
”¦So, everyone will have chicken and beef”¦ but we need to leave a space for a vegetarian option on the invitations. The invitations! Gah! That reminds me, is our ceremony set for 3 or for 4? I should call to check”¦
I’m a planner, and although it’s hard to admit, I’m a worrier. It’s wired in my DNA. I like knowing what’s going on, who’s going to be there, what time we should arrive, and if we should bring wine. Because, you know, we should probably bring wine. Oh, and is it a dressy thing, or more of a casual thing? Are jeans okay? This is my inner monologue. So, you can imagine my inner monologue for planning a wedding.
”¦We need to remember to tell the travel agent that if there are rows of 2 seats on the plane, that we’d prefer the row of 2 versus being stuck in a middle row of 3. Oh, and if there’s power ports by any of the seats, that’s where we’d prefer to sit so I can plug in my laptop”¦
Lists peppered my desk at home and at work. They were a double-edged sword: helpful to know what I still needed to accomplish and so I didn’t overlook anything, but also an anxiety-ridden reminder of what I still hadn’t done and on which we were “overdue”.
”¦We should have figured out our rehearsal dinner venue by now. And I’m a little worried that we haven’t ordered the bridesmaids’ dresses yet”¦ do you think they’ll end up coming in too late? Oh, and we need to think about what the ring bearer will be wearing now that we have the flower girls figured out”¦
I spiraled in thoughts like this until I was biting the insides of my cheeks from anxiety. He saw it; he always recognizes the signs. As always, he knew how to help. He helped me step away from the computer, take a breath (and blow my nose)”¦ and reevaluate the situation. He is my respite from the storm.
It doesn’t matter what the cake looks like, what linens we choose, or which invitations we pick. You’ve done such a great job so far, and no matter what you pick, it will be great. After all”¦ what really matters is that we’ll be married. I love you.
It seemed so simple when he said it. I knew, deep down, that he was one hundred percent right.
I’m attempting to turn over a new wedding planning leaf; one secure with the knowledge that even if our linens end up wonky and our cake is crooked and Aunt Tilda thinks that the chicken is rubbery, that it will be okay. I’m working on hushing my inner monologue. It’s one thing to have lists and be prepared”¦ it’s another completely to drive yourself ragged.
You see, all of that inspiration is a great thing to have; I’ve finally realized it shouldn’t be used as a yard stick to measure your wedding against. Because no one can ever recreate our wedding. They can’t recreate the giddy anticipation of walking down the aisle”¦ the feeling of his hand on my back while dancing our first dance together”¦ or the tears welling up in my eyes listening to my dad give a toast.
I know that no matter what we choose that it will be okay, because it was our wedding. And that’s the best part of all. For better or worse. For richer or poorer. Until death do us part.