the right person will still think the sun shines out your ass

Its official – our wedding is in exactly one month. I just cannot believe it – it seems like we’ve [I’ve] been planning this for a lifetime. I actually got all of the invites out last week[thanks to Heidi and Bax…oh and FI crashing our girls stuffing party. There was actually one point when he said, Hey girls when are we going to strip down to our bras and have a pillow fight? Sorry, FI, that only happens on Thursdays] and although there is no physical way for people to get them back by the date that was printed on them [ehhem, June 4] they were mailed none the less.

I actually can’t believe its Wednesday. I’ve been at a conference for work over the past two days in Cincinnasty, and FI is busy studying for the boards [only seven days left babe!]. After that he will, as he puts it, be officially transformed into “the wedding bitch”. Although this may seem degrading, it’s actually an endearing term confirming his commitment to our marriage [and the fact that I have done 11 months of preparation and am losing my mind].

I have actually given up on a few ideas that as the time draws near – they just seem further from my reach and/or reality. For example, my BMs wanted me to pick out some shoes for them to buy. I was in DSW last weekend, a day filled with many many wedding-related errands, and as I pushed my toes into a pair of shiny sliver heels and thought “shit my first two toes are fat” and then “Hmm, burgundy toe polish is a little dark for spring” it came to me: Why in the hell am I jamming my five painted pigs into shoes I’m not even wearing! [And furthermore] I don’t give a shit what shoes they wear!

Decision made: Dear maids [or "mates" as FI calls them, I guess if you are a girl in Australia – they might be called Bridesmates] find shoes yourself and don’t wear cowboy boots. Check.

Also, as my appointment calendar fills up in the limited window each night between post-work and bed I have come to the realization that I must give up on making it to the gym 4 nights a week and I might not achieve the six-pack I told myself I would have by my wedding day. Let alone the abolishment of the thin layer of cellulite that is hanging out on my thighs – but alas – wedding dresses are ingeniously designed to cover thighs.

No rock hard abs. Check.

And finally, I can plan till my little planny heart is content and shit is still going to get messed up. After taking a deep breath [of crushed Xanax] I am at peace with the fact that everyone in the world other than myself is incompetent so there is no way my plan can be flawlessly executed, I must let go of control. This will be the day that I marry the man I have come to realize is #1-A-Okay-Best-In-My-Book-Love and because of that simple fact, I know it will all be perfect.

Check.