I was so determined not to get stressed out about this wedding. The idea of paying a bazillion dollars for a party and then worrying, freaking out and losing sleep over it never made sense to me. After all, we've been together for years. We've got the kids and the mortgage. Why bother?
Why? Why? Because of the wedding.
I've always loved a wedding. The best a party could be. Everything is there: pretty outfits. Open bar. Bad dancing. Sentimental tears. And more romance than a Harlequin Black Label convention. It always disappointed me a little bit that Keith and I had such a wonderful marriage but had somehow missed out on the wedding.
The last time I got Keith to try on a wedding ring was years ago, on holiday in Borneo. 'How does that feel, sir?' asked the sycophantic jeweller. 'Like a noose,' replied Keith. (Apologies if you're actually coming to the wedding. I'll probably make that gag again. Just laugh politely, would you?)
So it took us a few years. Now we're going ahead, the plans have got a bit out of control, and quite frankly, I could reach back a few months and slap Past-Me in the face with a seating chart. All those big bloody ideas of mine are coming back to haunt me now I'm in final-fortnight freak-out zone. Me no likey following through on the details. I prefer the wildly imaginative, throw-them-out-and-see-what-flies ideas phase of proceedings. I'm irritating like that.
Now I have to tie up all those pesky ends and I'm getting sweaty hands just thinking about it. Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of more stuff I had to do. Finally my tossing woke Keith up. He tried to talk me down. 'Every bride would go through this final stressy point,' he soothes. 'They'd more likely be worrying about the contents of their bonboniere boxes rather than how to organise a spotlight for their acrobats (ooh! a teaser!) but it will get done. You can do it. It's going to be fun, remember?'
And then he promised that tomorrow he would make me a big Gannt chart, and I remembered why I'm marrying him. I went back to sleep, but poor Keith, wide awake by then, and worrying about spotlights, charts and bonboniere, was up for an hour.