I wrote this the other day because I KNEW I would be too hungover to function this week.Thanks, pre-stagette Lady Leisure. . .
Over the past two years of being engaged, wedding shit has ruled (ruined) my life.
I now belong to 20 Wedding-related Facebook Groups; one of which I proudly Administrate.
I have crafted approximately 100 tissue paper flowers, 40 invitations, 30 guest favours, 15 silk flower arrangements, one popcorn bar, a thank you banner, and a partridge in a pear tree. We’ve got a barn wood bar and archway, mason jar chandelier, 17 tree slices, 6 table runners, and one fake wedding cake constructed by the hands of my annoyed loved ones. My friends and family can barely tolerate me at this point. I feel the same way about myself.
I decided on my perfect dress about a year and a half ago. This decision became reality when my Dad tagged along one day and cried at the first dress I tried on. (And I have proof. I have in my possession a photo of me in THE dress looking in the mirror at my Dad bawling in the background).
Okay tears, you win. Obviously this is the dress I’m getting.
If he were present, the guy would have undoubtedly cried when I tried on the princess ballerina-ball gown-from-hell that made me look and walk (and feel) like a white fluffy minion. Thankfully, I attended that appointment by myself. No matter how convincingly my store consultant “ooh’d” and “aww’d” over how the unicorn sparkles brought out my eyes and explained how “Every girl deserves to feel like a princess on her wedding day,” I was not fooled.
Shut up. Unicorns don’t even exist.
Lucky dress number 50 is the one my Daddy chose and I’m curious to know if maybe he forced the tears to end my dangerous obsession. I am only estimating when I say I test drove 50 dresses; I always downplay this one because people raise their eyebrows when I tell them it was more like 75. I shopped till I dropped at ten to twelve bridal shops across the province. It was an addiction; I am a recovering dress shopping addict.
I like the dress. It’s pretty and brings out my figure and shit. Would I ever want to shop that aggressively for wedding gowns again? I’d go tomorrow, next week, when I’m too old to walk, even when my daughter gets married.
Shh, darling, Mom wants to try just ONE more on, THEN it will be your turn.
I apologize in advance to my future daughter who will be unfortunate enough to receive my genes. She’s got some grandiose wedding numbers to “try” to shatter. On second thought, I apologize to my future daughter’s future husband. And my future husband.
Jack, I’m sorry for my OCD (past, present, and future).