We’re almost there, folks. I can see the big nuptial light at the end of this long engagement tunnel. We are rounding third base and headed for home. However, with only 43 days to go, I have developed a new Bride Phobia.
No, this isn’t some new show on E! where brides have to concur their fear of spiders or stretch marks in order to meet their groom at the alter; this is a true fear of mine.
It’s not about the cake, not about the flowers, not even about my dress (although as I sit here at eating away my terror in pretzels maybe I should be more worried about the dress) I’m terrified of the health and well being of my loved ones.
Last weekend my parents went to Chicago for a couple days. They didn’t para-sail in the Atlantic ocean, they weren’t cliff diving in Fuji, they were just driving 150 miles to Chicago to see my sister. And yet, I freaked.
“Text me when you get there. Text me when you wake up and after eating. Did you choke? Slip? Fall?”
Imagine my delight when on the day they were driving back, Illinois and Wisconsin were supposed to get hit with the Blizzard of the Century promising to drop 20 inches of snow.
I was quite calm when I texted my dad at 7:46 that morning: “Tons of snow coming. 10 to 20 inches. Leave now!”
When they finally called from home, I almost wept with relief.
Yes, I would very much like to have included a helmet with each wedding invitation we sent. Or at least a promise with each reply that no one can leave the state, walk on ice, play any contact sports or even think too hard. How else do you think brain aneurysms happen?
For Matt and Ben I have ordered full “Boy in the Bubble” suits. Sure they might be cumbersome but isn’t giving up walking for rolling a small price to pay for not hobbling down the aisle with a broken leg?
I’m currently trying very hard not to think about my maid of honor Amy going to Vegas this weekend. On a plane. For her friend’s 40th birthday party. I’m sure they will just sit in a restaurant, drink water while not making eye contact with any strangers, right?
When I asked her if she might have more fun staying in the hotel room and texting with me all night, she politely said, “You’re funny.” Which I took to mean “I’ll think about it.” I just hope she gets the bubble wrap full body suit I sent her in time. Bubble is the new black.
Last Sunday, when it was a balmy 31 degrees and sunny out, I decided to change up my workout and walk outside. It was amazing getting fresh air while pounding the pavement. That was until I almost fell. Twice. As I cursed people for not shoveling or putting salt down on the skating rinks outside their homes, visions of using crutches for our first dance or having a broken arm in Jamaica sent panic right through me.
I’ve been so worried about everyone else I hadn’t thought about myself. Right then the walk stopped being a workout and became all about survival.
I considered getting on all fours and crawling home. Or, better yet, rolling down the sidewalk. Much safer than crawling. If people looked at me weird I’d just yell, “Getting married! Next month! Can’t be too careful!” I’m sure not only would they understand, I might have even gotten a push.
So if you are attending my wedding, please don’t be alarmed when instead of meeting you out in the dangerous world for lunch I’d rather we Skype from the safety of our living rooms while drinking smoothies.
The best wedding present would be for everyone in our wedding party, and all the guests be careful and be boring for the next 44 days.
After March 19th, you can bungee jump with dental floss for all I care.
Until then, chew your food well, don’t swim for at least 2 hours after eating and, for the love of God, when the McDonald’s cup says, “Caution: Hot!” believe it!
