A year ago today, I woke up next to my fiancé for the first time. A week from today, I’ll wake up for the first time next to my husband.
I dropped the blogging ball an internet eon ago. At the time, the wedding was finally taking shape, with details galore still to be filled in. Since then, most of those details have either fallen into place or fallen by the wayside. All that’s left, really, is for these many months of planning to magically turn into an actual wedding.
It has been a mostly wonderful period. My amazing and wonderful girlfriends have made me feel incredibly loved and supported, throwing me a crazy-fun bachelorette weekend in the mountains, showering me with gifts and laughter, and being there for me every step of the way. The same holds true for Steve’s family, and for my mother’s friends, who have all helped me feel like a Bride, with a capital "B" (and no suffix-ed "zilla").
Somehow, I found my way through a thicket of anxieties, mostly related to my own appearance-related insecurities. I’ve given in to my inner girly girl and grown out my hair, evened my perpetual tan lines, and agreed to wear a veil (oh, how I love my veil!).
I survived an early dress crisis, which we resolved beyond all expectations with the discovery of a wonderful, talented, patient, and visionary dressmaker. After a few massive sobbing fits - truly, my lowest point during the entire wedding-planning process (which, when I think about it, is pathetic) - I am madly in love with my gown. It was originally my mother’s, but has been remade significantly to suit my style. During the aforementioned crisis, when I stood on the brink of a no-turning-back decision about whether to go forward and try to work with my mom's dress or buy a brand new gown, I realized something important. There are hundreds and hundreds of wedding gowns out there, quite a few of which would probably look just fine on me. But only one of them was worn by my mother on the day she began her incredible 39-years-and-counting marriage to my dad. My one great sadness, alas is that my beloved grandmother won’t be there to see me wearing it, too.
Speaking of my mother, she has devoted countless hours to making this wedding happen, saving me endless stress and probably my job in the bargain. Her creative talent (the handmade invitations put anything on the market to shame), organizational skills (at T-minus-six, just about everything is DONE), negotiating acumen (we're coming in somewhere in the general vicinity of the budget), and boundless energy have produced what is sure to be a glorious and memorable event. The fact that we have made it through a full year of planning with only one or two screaming matches is truly astounding.
Most important of all, Steve and I have grown ever closer and stronger, and are heading into marriage filled with a sense of excitement, adventure, and shared purpose. We celebrated our "proposaversary" yesterday by competing in a sprint triathlon. It was Steve’s first (he kicked ass!), and it left me feeling confident that our life together will continue to be filled with new challenges and a commitment to living as fully and actively as we can. I absolutely can’t wait to marry this man.
The wedding adventure begins Thursday, as the first of our nearly 100 out-of-town guests begin to arrive. By Sunday night, when we walk down the aisle, my hope is that our many friends and relatives will have come together as a group, buoying us on their collective enthusiasm and good will. At the very least, I hope we remember the steps to our snazzy first dance.
No matter what, though, at the end of the evening, we’ll be married. And in the grand scheme of things, that's all that matters.