I had to prove that I was legally divorced before I was allowed to obtain a marriage license.
If there was such a thing as a bridal license requiring proof of girlyness, the people at town hall would still be pointing and laughing, and I would be all out of luck.
Today I grabbed a friend and spend the day pretty much trying to finish up all of the wedding-related things that required tending to. Along the way I learned that I am lacking a basic gene, the one all women are supposed to have, the one that causes a female to care deeply about every aspect of her wedding day.
It’s not that I don’t care about the MARRIAGE. I care—deeply—about that. It’s the actual wedding itself where I’ve ceased to have strong opinions.
Again, it’s not that I don’t care about getting married. But people keep asking me what I WANT and what I WANT is to be married to Otto. HOW that happens is beside the point.
And apparently, my disinterest in the remaining arrangements renders me some sort of mutant pariah, not to be trusted.
Our first stop was at the florist, bright and early this morning. Do I care about flowers? Not particularly. But we’re getting married at my church and I’m happy to provide the altar arrangement for the weekend. Plus Chickadee is VERY excited about having a bouquet. And Otto reminded me to get a corsage for his mom. So, fine. Off to the florist. Which florist? The one the church uses, of course. I made this appointment a week ago with the sweet young thing behind the counter.
So we walk in, and some woman comes to fetch us and takes us to a big table in back with various shiny, colorful books labeled things like FLORAL WEDDING and MULTIFLORAL MARRIAGE and invites us to sit down and proceeds to deliver a scathing lecture about how YOU DO NOT GET MARRIED ON MOTHER’S DAY WEEKEND. Apparently I have pissed off the Florist Gods by daring to pick that weekend. I sat there and blinked at her until she was done.
“I… don’t really need very much,” I stammered. “An altar piece, which you would’ve been doing anyway, a little bouquet for my daughter and a couple of corsages and boutonnieres. That’s it.”
“That’s what they ALL say,” she scoffed. “Then it’s ‘But maybe a few arrangements for the tables’ and ‘Well, bouquets for the attendants, you know.'” She cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to say something to convince her that I was different.
My friend and I exchanged looks.
“Well,” I said, “we’re not having a reception, so I don’t need table decorations. And I don’t have any attendants, so I really just need the one bouquet. For my daughter. I don’t even want a bouquet for me.”
Well, this caused her entire demeanor to shift. She went from being angry with me to realizing that I was but a wayward waif in desperate need of her guidance. I think she actually put a hand to her chest with the horror of it all.
“You have to have a bouquet, you’re the BRIDE!” she admonished, as on the other side of me, my friend muttered, “Shut UP, you have to have flowers to carry, you moron.”
I was feeling the love.
I felt the love for the next half hour, as we:
… flipped through the books
“Oh, look at this monstrosity. Is that CELERY?”
… discussed colors
“What colors do you like?”
“My dress has a lot of fuchsia and orange.”
“So you want fuchsia and orange?”
… picked varieties
“We can do X or Y in that. X is more expensive.”
“But X might be—”
“Y is fine.”
… and of course, I was bullied into getting my own bouquet.
“So what sort of flowers do you want?”
“I don’t care.”
“But what do you LIKE?”
“Flowers. That aren’t dead.”
“How about Gerberas?”
“Great, I love Gerberas.”
“How big would you like it to be?”
“Well, I didn’t want a bouquet at all, remember, so how about something small.”
“You HAVE to have a bouquet.”
“We’ve covered this already. Yes. Fine. Surprise me.”
So that was interesting.
After the florist, we hit an actual bridal store, looking for boob tape. I am a bit paranoid with my dress, you see. I have never in my life worn a plunging halter before. We seem to have squared away the support situation, but I am nervous about leaning over and my dress gapping. And I would hate for my REALLY LOVELY AND NECESSARY BOUQUET to be marred by a wardrobe malfunction, so we bought some tape to make sure everything stays where it’s supposed to.
(My apologies to family members and soon-to-be-family who read here. Yes, you will now spend the entire ceremony thinking about the fact that I’ve taped my dress to my pitiful excuse for cleavage. You’re welcome.)
After the boob tape, we hit the mall. Where I spent an entertaining half hour with a woman at the Prescriptives counter. Good news! I now know that my skin is red orange, and my ideal foundation is called True Peach. Also, as pretty, pretty commenter Summer pointed out, you can get a “sample” of foundation for FREE! So after she made me all up I asked about getting a sample, and I am now the proud owner of a teeny weeny bottle of foundation which I may or may not be able to apply on my own. This meant I didn’t have to spend a gazillion dollars on a small bottle of foundation.
And this was important, because it freed me up to covet the 36 OTHER products she applied to me, and also to marinate in the guilt of her spending all this time to do my face, and so instead of spending a gazillion dollars on a small bottle of foundation, I spent it on some magic translucent finishing powder that was full of platinum fairy dust (if the price and luminous result were any indication). Phew.
We then left Macy’s and went to CVS, where I bought waxing strips (I ran out a while ago, and half an hour of staring at all the hair on my upper lip made me want to cry) and the cheap imitation of the colors of eyeshadow I’d just learned how to apply. I’m not sure if the same application methods apply to the $7 kind as to the stuff she tried to sell me for $30, but I’m hopeful.
After CVS, we spent an embarrassing amount of time at AC Moore trying to determine if we could make a floral circlet for Chickadee (she wants one; have I mentioned she’s convinced this wedding is all about her getting to be a princess?), after which I purchased $2 worth of tiny little fake flowers to weave into her hair, instead.
Next came the search for… ahhhh… something to wear on the honeymoon. This was where my friend really came in handy, because, again: missing the bridal gene. (I can’t wear my flannel jammies on my honeymoon? What if it’s COLD?) And you know that I don’t want to spend real money on this sort of thing, either. In about the third store we hit we found something suitable on clearance (woo!), after my friend had suffered through my running litany of “Oh! This one is ONLY $85! I think I’ll get TWO!”
[I think it was at that store where I commented, “I dunno. Nothing is really leaping out and biting me.” And a salesgirl gave me a funny look and said that if anything in her department was BITING me she was going to be concerned.]
After that we (finally, mercifully) left the mall, and went to a chain restaurant for a late lunch. At that point, most normal brides would be gushing about their hopes and dreams and waxing philosophical about the future. Or at the very least, going over last-minute checklists and begging their girlfriend(s) for reassurance.
Me, I’d done everything I’d set out to do. My deep thoughts at the restaurant pretty much began and ended with “Mmmm, these potato skins have a LOT of bacon on them.”