I’m gonna be completely honest and admit that I always thought most brides were kind of exaggerating about how much work goes into planning a wedding. You pick some colors, hire a few people, taste a bunch of cake and call it a day, right? Right.
Totally not right. I guess it’s kind of like how I imagine stay-at-home moms must spend all day chilling on the couch watching Days of Our Lives until 3 p.m. when it’s inevitably time to break out the wine bottle. I mean come on, how hard could it be?!
(Don’t worry SAHMs, this comparison was for joke purposes only. I realize most of your day is spent molding the minds of our future generation and that you don’t actually break out the wine until at least 4 p.m.)
What I’m trying to say is, planning a wedding is one of those things you don’t realize is difficult until you actually do it. And then when you do, suddenly you realize that Bridezilla was probably just an ordinary girl whose only crime was being very busy juggling work and life commitments while simultaneously trying to plan a badass event that brings together a few dozen people from very different places, cultures and backgrounds. CUT HER SOME SLACK!
Ugh. I’m annoyed just listening to myself.
I’m so pumped for our wedding, but desperately counting down the days until I can check out from work and really savor it. Until then, send me all of your Zen vibes.
In other news, I’ve learned I’m hopelessly addicted to carbohydrates and am a miserable person without them.
Until now, the closest I’ve come to dieting was that time in high school when I decided I was going on the South Beach diet and quit approximately eight hours into it (you have to really like eggs to make that diet work). For some zany reason, mostly the flabby skin on the backside of my arms, I decided my upcoming wedding was a good enough reason to try again, and for the last couple weeks I’ve been trying my best to do that thing they call “clean eating.”
I haven’t been following any strict rules, just trying to generally eat less crap and more green stuff. I can tell it’s working because I’m starving and cranky by 11 a.m. That’s how diets work, right? The other night, though, I couldn’t take it any longer. Domino’s popped into my inbox with a *PAN-tastic offer* and my defenses were shattered.
I could feel the adrenaline pumping into my fingers as I clicked the ‘Order’ button. I barely noticed the snowstorm outside as I trekked the three blocks to pick it up. My mouth literally watered as I opened the box, which was both sad and exhilarating.
I ate three slices and immediately felt like I was transported back into my own brain after being trapped in a lonely, empty, carb-deprived alien shell for the last 10 days. What can I say? I’m a carbivore. It’s who I am. It’s what I do. And in less than 20 days I’m going to be on the dance floor throwing my arms, flabby as they may be, in the air, celebrating being a married carbivore.
And then I’m going to eat cake.
