Stage Three, The Dress (Part One)

I will admit that I harbored a secret fear that I might be the one girl in all the world who doesn't really look good in wedding gowns. I don't know why I thought this might be, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I am so pale I practically glow, and thus white is simply not my color. However, after having finished my third successful dress hunting expedition with April this weekend, it turns out that my problem is not going to be having to pick which dress offends me the least, but rather which dress I love most. Because right now I love three, and deeply like a fourth, and I still have two more outtings planned during which it is completely possible that I may fall in love yet again.

I've been told that I should picture myself on That Day and go with what dress I can best imagine myself in. All well and good, except I can picture them all, and each one, at the moment I'm thinking of it, seems like the perfect choice.

I feel heartbroken when I think about having to dump any of them. Last night I had a dream that I went to try on the front runner for a second time, and found that it was no longer a dress, but rather a shiny white pantsuit (think Celine Dion). Once I got over being mortified, I was deeply relieved to have a good excuse to cut one choice away.

Firsts and Lasts

Today is April's last day at the company she's been with since we moved to Los Angeles over five years ago. She's leaving so that she has more time to focus on Sweet Monday. I'm really excited about the strides we've both taken to make the dream of our business begin to come true.

(To the five of you who read this, I promise to write a real post soon. Head still in clouds.)

Comfort Food

Made cheesy vegetable soup for dinner last night, letting it simmer just long enough to make it thick and creamy. I wish I'd had some of mom's cornbread to go with it.

New

For anyone interested in pictures from our latest wedding, you may see them by clicking in the title of this post.

Stage Two, Where I try to do something besides think about the wedding

Sat down tonight to write for the first time in three weeks. I thought I'd follow behind my dad and aunt and post what I'm working on right now. A little rusty, but:

In the final days before her divorce, Moira spent most of her time watching her new television. It was the fanciest set offered, ordered from a Sears catalog, and delivered by a man to whom she lied and said that her husband was away on business. It was black and white, and later when she would think back on this time, it would seem that her whole life then had existed in the static of gray. She was depressed, although she hadn't really noticed.

The television, which she called the Tee Vee, pronouncing each syllable with such deliberate force that unbeknownst to her it sounded almost ridiculous, was just one symptom. She'd never watched it before, had never even had an interest, and suddenly her days revolved around Lucy and Gidget, women who would have dulled her under previous circumstances.

In the mornings she got up and put on a pair of denim slacks. She knew they were really only acceptable to wear if she planned to spend time in the garden, and so most days as she put them on, she thought to herself that she would do just that, but then never did. Instead, she made herself eggs, two, scrambled, which she bought from the market down the street that received them fresh every morning at 8:45. The eggs and a piece of toast, just black enough to fill the kitchen with the smell of something burning. She'd take the plate into the living room, and rest it carefully on her knees, eating as delicately as she could while taking in the first of her programs for the day. Sometimes the smell of the burnt toast would remain in the kitchen until the afternoon. It comforted her in some way, as if it made the house more full and lived in than her body alone could manage.

In the end it was Moira who had wanted the divorce. Luke, for all his many flaws, was a man of honor who had not wanted Moira to feel the shame divorced women were subjected to.
“We can go on like this,” he’d said.
But she’d heard something different, and so in return she’d said he was right. ”We can’t. We can’t do this anymore.”
It was months before he corrected her.

Stage One, In Which I Obsess Over A Barn and Someone To Take Pictures of Us in Fancy Clothes

With the exception of the first couple of blissful days, my eyelids have been doing that weird twitchy thing nearly nonstop for the two weeks I've been engaged. It appears even my eyelids are stressed out by Week One of wedding planning.

Every married friend or relative who has congratulated G. and I has dispensed the same piece of advice: Enjoy this time. On an emotional level, I am. I love the happiness I feel knowing I get to marry the guy who surprised me with breakfast at work this morning out of the blue (and with extra McDonald's monopoly pieces!). I don't love the feeling that if we don't act fast (like, five hours ago fast) we might lose our Perfect Location or our Perfect Photographer.

I will take everyone's advice. Yes, I will. I will enjoy this time. After those things have been done.

Good Things Come...

In the quiet corner of a restaurant, surrounded by memories sewn together long ago, before we knew the fabric they would create(though didn't we, always, in a way?).

In the nervous hush right before the first strums of a guitar, played while on one knee, with words full and pure.

In the weight and shine of a ring on a finger.

In new promises made and old promises kept.

I'm getting married.