I had another near-freakout today, only rather than labels, this time it was over money. When I learned that my hair/makeup person would be, roughly, eleven thousand billion trillion dollars (more or less), I panicked knowing full-well that I couldn’t afford it. But, before I let it consume me, I figured out ways to fix the problem. Rather than having her travel to my house, I’ll go to her. I’ll cut services. It’ll be okay.

That problem was avoidable.

But then there are other problems, ones that can’t be fixed by a simple phone call and schedule change.

The lady who altered my wedding dress is a friend of my mom’s. She hemmed my dress, took in the top (because, let’s be honest, I’m quite flat in that area), and created the bustle. She also altered my mom’s dress, took in my dad’s suit, and even shined Samir’s shoes. She charged us…absolutely nothing. NOTHING. Of course, I had to do something, so I ended up paying her a very minimal amount (compared to how much everything would have cost had it not been her doing it.) She had to keep her shop open, after all; she had to pay her assistant.

Of course, she refused the money, wanting to do everything for me as a gift. After much debate, we decided to give the money to her assistant, who did a lot of the sewing. A tip, if you will.

A few years ago, much like my mother, her assistant had breast cancer. She’s fine now, but since all of the treatment is so expensive, she hasn’t been able to go back for a check up. She can’t afford it. So we gave her the money, with strict instructions on what she’s to do with it. She started crying. My mom started crying. I started crying. It felt so good to be able to help this woman.

It was an emotional mess. But a good one, for once.

Her problem? Unavoidable. Medical issues happen; they happened to my mom, who was quite healthy prior. So compared to that, hair and makeup seems just so…trivial and it’s nice to remember what…and who…really matters most.

I had my first bridal meltdown this past weekend. I mean, full screaming and crying flip out. And if you know me, you know that’s not in my nature. It was so bad that my mom had to remove me from the kitchen, where a guy was fixing their china cabinet. I’m pretty sure he called his boss moments after to ensure he’d never be assigned our house again.

For the past few weeks, my mom has been on me about making labels for our wedding favors. Apparently the favors, which are chocolate covered Oreos, need labels because our guests might not know who’s wedding they’re at. I kept putting it off, because I’d only found really horrid looking/expensive labels at Michael’s and Jo-Anne’s. But she remained persistent in her reminding me, as if it wasn’t clearly stated already on my to-do list.

Apparently my trigger word is labels, because when she said it again, after I dropped off our programs at her house, I. Just. Lost it.

Now, it could have been because I was on around five hours of sleep. I hadn’t been sleeping, because every night around 4 I’d wake up and think. I hate thinking sometimes. I’d make the list of things I’d need to do the following day. I’d fret that I’d forget the list. So, then, I’d get up and write out the list – just in case. All of the stressing, fretting, and writing would keep me up for a good few hours, so I wouldn’t’ fall back asleep until around 6:30, only to wake up at 7.

This has been constant.

So with little sleep, and a head full of things to do, I let out a mixture of screams and sobs and it was entirely embarrassing. I don’t think my mom knew what to do, other than escort me away from the stranger, who was giving me the oddest look.

I finally calmed down, and organized my thoughts. I dived up responsibilities a bit more; I really couldn’t handle everything. I’ve always been like that, though; I don’t like to burden others. If anything goes wrong, I’d rather blame myself. Plus, if I do everything, I know how and when it’ll be done. So I let her take care of folding/tying the programs, and gave the escort cards to my bridesmaid Shannon because she has much better handwriting than me. I’m learning to let go, and that’s okay I think. I can’t do everything.

I told Samir my story as soon as he got home on Sunday from his bachelor party. I think I freaked him out a bit.

Who knew planning a wedding would be this…emotional!?

—

P.S. I finished the labels last night. They’re fabulous.

The wedding is officially 15 days away. Crazy, right? I feel like my engagement party was just yesterday. And now, in 15 days, I’m going to be MARRIED. A Mrs. A new last name holder.

Weird.

After writing my previous post, I had a few great responses via e-mail. I learned that it’s very rare to hear a bride admit she’s nervous (and not just about the cake falling apart). Brides are supposed to be happy and excited; the groom is supposed to be crazed and frightened.

I hate “supposed to be.” There shouldn’t be any “supposed to be”s. Let’s be as we want.

So, I did some research. When people asked if I was excited about the “big day,” I answered honestly: “Yes, very, but I’m also really nervous.” This solicited two answers:

a) Don’t worry, S won’t leave you at the altar.
c) Don’t worry, everything will look beautiful, and it’ll go perfectly.

Not one answer addressed what I was really feeling. It’s as if the thought of being scared about “happily ever after” is foreign. I know S won’t stand me up, I’ve never been worried about that. And honestly, at this point I don’t care if everything looks beautiful or not – I’m just excited for the day. BUT – that doesn’t stop me from being nervous about being married. (As a note, I’m not anymore, I’m perfectly fine. Woo!)

So then I looked over all of my bridal books and magazines and found…absolutely nothing. Everything is about planning for the day. Nothing addressed suppressed fears that may bubble up. You’re supposed to feel secure, excited, happy.

In fact, I found one article that listed the 10 most important things on your wedding day. Number one was feeling beautiful. Number eight was being in love. (Priorities!) None were feeling confident the marriage will last! (Which makes me wonder if the magazine thinks the wedding is more important than the marriage. That’s…sad. It’s just a party after all.)

That said, I want to write something that will address these fears. These thoughts that are never addressed or nullified because everyone’s so preoccupied with the day. Since the wedding IS 15 days away, I don’t have time to write a full well researched article at the moment, but I DO have time to compile my own “Hey, it’s okay” post. (And, yes, I’m blatantly ripping the title off Glamour magazine. Thanks, Glamour!)

So, from funny to serious, here’s my take on getting married – not just planning a wedding.

Hey, It’s Okay…

• If you start to find every guy who passes attractive, only because you realize you’ll never be able to have anything more than a friendship with them.
• If part of you is upset that you’ll never be able to marry Leonardo DiCaprio/Brad Pitt/Jake Gyllenhaal. (JG-I’m still unmarried for 15 days…so….if you’re free…)
• If you consider keeping your last name, if only because it makes you feel more like…you.
• If you couldn’t care less about specifics of the wedding. (Such as if the napkins match the programs and the flowers. Who remembers these things anyway?)
• If you start to wonder what all of your ex’s are up to. And how they’ll react to your engagement. (And, okay, if they’ll make one last dying proclamation of their love, even if you really don’t like them at all.)
• If the fact that you’ll never have another first kiss again scares you.
• To be more excited (or nervous about) about the marriage than the wedding.
• To be frightened of “’til death do you part.”

In the end, I think it’s really important to address these fears early. Admit you’re scared (if you are). Tell the groom. Talk about it. It’ll all be fine in the end, you just need to let yourself be fine first.

I sometimes joke that Samir and I have a reverse relationship. Not reverse in the fact that it started at the end, but reverse because oftentimes I take on the male role, and he the female when it comes to certain things. For instance, while he was the one who initially liked me prior to me even thinking of him in that way, I was the one who approached the conversation of us dating. When we argue about something, I get angry and he gets moody and mopey. I fix the toilet, he cooks dinner. Perhaps it’s a more modern version of a classic relationship.

So now that we’re less than a month away from our wedding (!!!), he’s giddy with excitement and I’m freaking out. Not freaking out because I have 1,000 things to do (okay, well, I DO have 1,000 things to do), but freaking out because This. Is. Scary. I’ll admit it, it’s absolutely frightening. Putting myself out there like that. Committing for life. I buy shoes that I know won’t last more than two years because I know I’ll probably want new ones by then.

That’s not say I’m not excited as well. I am. I’m thrilled. I’m ready. I want to do this. But is it not okay to be scared as well? It seems so foreign – so undisclosed. I feel other girls in my position would run away, afraid my fears will rub off on them. They wouldn’t dare admit to feeling the slightest bit of nervousness.

I think about forever and get scared. Will we still be the same? Will it still feel the same?

Last night we were sitting in bed. He was listening to comedy on his iPod, I was reading yet another young adult novel. As Hurricane Irene passed, our lights flickered, and then went out. It was around midnight, so the apartment was pitch black. I couldn’t see my hands.

So naturally, unlike normal people who’d just shrug and go to sleep, I freaked out.
When I was little, I was raised on Cinderella, The Sound of Music, and Grease. But I was also raised on Terminator, Demolition Man, and Robocop. While years later I appreciated my dad’s addition to my movie list, being able to quote guy-films with the guys, I was confused as a child. I enjoyed them, I did, but my childhood changed from a normal fear of ghosts in the night to murderers and serial killers. The T-1,000 was going to get me, not the boogie man. The un-captured murderer was under my bed, not a zombie. So every night I slammed my closet open to ensure it was clear, jumped quickly onto my bed, and covered myself with the protective embrace of my blanket, hoping the ritual would ward off child-killers. And since fear of the known doesn’t go away quite easily as fear of the unreal, my discomfort with the dark never quite ebbed. Most nights I’m fine, but every now and then, the feeling of something coming to get me comes over. And I have to check every lock, every bed, every closet before falling asleep.

So when the lights popped, I shot my head up and looked around. Silence.

“Well that sucks,” Samir said, pulling his earbuds out.

“It’s dark,” I murmured.

“It’s fine.”

“What if I have to pee?” Of course this was my first reaction. In the comfort of our bedroom, we were safe. The door was shut, closet open, no one was there to hurt me. But creeping out into a dark hallway, with the inability to see if a murderer was around the corner? I couldn’t take it.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. Anyone else would think I’m crazy. Anyone else would just sigh and turn around, ignoring my childish fears. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sarcastic or dismissive; he earnestly said it, as if there was reason to be afraid of our dark living room.

The lights came back on not five minutes later. Eyes adjusting to our bedside lamps, I looked over at him and for the first time since we realized there’s only a month to go, felt not an ounce of fear. Or anxiety. Or nerves. I knew we’d be fine, I’d be fine. I wasn’t nervous for our future together, I was excited for it. We’ll keep going at the speed we’re at and break through our obstacles, whatever they may be. We’re in it together – we always were. I knew that no matter the fear, he’ll be there to hold my hand and get me through it. And that while forever may sound frightening, it’s also truly incredible.