Truth Universally Acknowledged

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman who decides to have a wedding has completely lost her sanity.

Let me tell you two things about me: I'm getting married and it's making me crazy.

I got engaged on my twenty-seventh birthday, which coincidentally fell on the same night as Game One of the ALCS. So I got one of the two things I wanted for my birthday: my engagement ring (the less said about Game One the better, although I suppose since my beloved Red Sox came back and slaughtered the Yankees later on that week, I have absolutely nothing to be bitter over).

Anyway, I got engaged on my birthday. Unlike most brides to be, I didn't immediately set a date and start planning my future with the Object of My Affection. No, I work in the wonderful world known as Retail. And October through February is my busiest time of year as a manager for one of the better known retailers in the world. You can just refer to my job as corporate slavery. Don't get me wrong, I adore my job. I love the people I work with, I love my co-managers and my district manager and all the managers who work in my district, except for the Ghetto Whore. But I believe Randall said it best in Clerks when he said, "This job would be great if it weren't for the fuckin' customers."

So I had to wait to set my date and start looking for reception sites, etc. So now, here it is, almost six months later, and I haven't booked my reception. Or my photograper. Or my DJ. Or my florist. I haven't even conclusively settled a date with the priest yet. The Object of My Affection (Rock Starr) has an evil job that requires him to wear a cell phone twenty four hours a day and cut short his vacations. So we've done NOTHING. And I refuse to make any decisions by myself because Omar will fucking bitch for the rest of our lives if I make the wrong one.

Don't get me wrong: Omar generally lets me do whatever the hell I want. But we're paying for the wedding mostly by ourselves. So we need to do this together. Tomorrow we're going to look at two receptions sites, as long as the snow doesn't keep us stuck here. We're getting married in a different state, at the church where I was baptized, which means a lot of driving back and forth. And since my parents live in the same town as the church, we're going to be spending a lot of time with them.

I love my parents. My dad is one of the coolest human beings alive. Totally laid back and gentlemanly and well-read and intelligent and funny. My mom is the best mom anyone could ever have. She's smart and funny, loves to travel and watch sports and read. She is the best person to call when you have a bad day because she always knows the best thing to say to make you feel better about yourself. Growing up the three of us had our issues. And when you bring Baby Sis into the mix, that place could be pretty loud sometimes. But generally, it's a household of cool, funny, happy people who genuinely enjoy each other's company.

Until I told my mom I was getting married.

She calls me. Every day. Every day. I am twenty-seven years old. I have not lived at home in five years. I paid off my car by myself, got a great job on my own, remember (most of the time) to pay my bills in an orderly fashion. And yet she calls. Every day. Did I call the priest about the date? Did I set a date? Have I looked at wedding dresses? Who's going to be in the wedding? How many people are Omar's parents inviting? Did I remember to put So and So on the guest list? Her friend Martha's daughter got married six years ago and her videographer only charged them $400. Have I called around? Did I set up my retirement fund? Did I call the doctor yet? You know, tax is season is almost over. Have I done my taxes?

She is driving me crazy.

My dad is the other extreme. He never talks about the wedding. As far as I can tell, his oldest daughter getting married is just another Saturday errand he's going to have to run next May. Not that my dad seems to mind my getting married; he and Omar get along pretty well. But it seems to bore him.

Of course, I don't live at home anymore. For all I know, he hears about the wedding twenty-four/seven. He may be as sick of it as I am. And I'm the one getting married.

I'm not afraid of marriage. The Object of My Affection (whom I occasionally call Rock Starr because of his adorable habit of dancing around and singing when he wants to make me smile) and I have been together for over six years. We've known for the last four that we were eventually going to make this committment together. We've spoken intelligently about career goals, kids, money, where we'd like to live. But the goddamn wedding may make both us insane. The money is the biggest part of the insanity. Weddings cost a lot of money. We don't have a lot of money. Today we opened a joint bank account. For the wedding. It seems like everything we do these days revolves around the wedding. When did I let one event take over my life?

Oh, I remember. When I got engaged.

I know complaining about all this makes me sound ungrateful. Truly, I'm not. I love Rock Starr and I want to spend my whole life with him. And there is this secret girly part of me that desperately wants this big fiasco. So hold on and fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy ride.