We were planning on a movie and a trip to the farmer's market, but those plans were lost somewhere between the tornado warnings and glueing raffia on little clay pots (and telling my mom that she could not make jokes about the decorations and my soon-to-be last name). I called seamstresses before I realized I came from the best one. Mom comes to the rescue, whips out Grandma's old machine, and takes a size 12 dress down to a 4 in no time. Hours earlier she shows up at my door, arms full of homemade wreaths and placecards and 12 pounds of nuts and countless bags of M & M's and napkins for the punch table and baskets for the card table. And new labels to put on the pots underneath the glued on raffia. Martha Stewart watch out--my mom could kick your ass.
I've been doing laundry and getting dishes done, scanning pictures and choosing music. I've been harping on the boy to get the sound system figured out and the toilets scrubbed, only to be dominated by his family in the next few days. I must clear out the guest room, make a path from the bed to the door, barely missing desk chairs, bookcases, unused treadmills.
I'm feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, anxious and annoyed. I'm not one to make a lot of important decisions like how much punch to have on hand or who will be in charge of getting the cake on Saturday. I'm not one to enjoy being the center of attention, of having everyone ask if there's anything they can do to help. I step around piles, one bag to the ceremony site, one box with candles, another with fans and bottled water. One pile holds the wedding license and our rings, our CD of ceremony music if we ever get around to making it.
It's a sad time when you'd rather be working on your thesis. I crave a New England short story, a criticism of my grammar usage. I want to type until my fingers ache, until my head is pounding. I want one more part of my life to be finished, not just lounging around in limbo. I must remind myself it is only four days away. Four more days and life can be normal again, only with extra weight on my left hand and an even greater desire to escape. How can anyone blame what's-her-face for running away?
I've been doing laundry and getting dishes done, scanning pictures and choosing music. I've been harping on the boy to get the sound system figured out and the toilets scrubbed, only to be dominated by his family in the next few days. I must clear out the guest room, make a path from the bed to the door, barely missing desk chairs, bookcases, unused treadmills.
I'm feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, anxious and annoyed. I'm not one to make a lot of important decisions like how much punch to have on hand or who will be in charge of getting the cake on Saturday. I'm not one to enjoy being the center of attention, of having everyone ask if there's anything they can do to help. I step around piles, one bag to the ceremony site, one box with candles, another with fans and bottled water. One pile holds the wedding license and our rings, our CD of ceremony music if we ever get around to making it.
It's a sad time when you'd rather be working on your thesis. I crave a New England short story, a criticism of my grammar usage. I want to type until my fingers ache, until my head is pounding. I want one more part of my life to be finished, not just lounging around in limbo. I must remind myself it is only four days away. Four more days and life can be normal again, only with extra weight on my left hand and an even greater desire to escape. How can anyone blame what's-her-face for running away?
posted by KC in Katoland at 10:51 PM
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