Yeah, so, in one week I’m going to be someone’s wife.
In one week, I will have a husband.
Honestly, I didn’t know if this day would ever come. I never met anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and I never thought I would meet someone who wanted to spend a weekend with me, let alone the rest of his life with me.
The wedding planning is going smoothly. Apparently, this is odd. People keep saying to me, “One week! You must be really freaked out!” or “I bet you guys are stressing out, huh?”
The thing is … I’m not stressed out at all. Maybe on the actual day of the wedding I will be freaking out and transform into Bridezilla: “Why didn’t I get flowers? I will cut someone if I don’t get flowers! I will destroy all of you!”
David doesn’t appear to be too worried about the wedding, either. The centerpieces are good to go. The playlists have been created. The seating chart is done, man. There will be food. There will be booze. There will be music. It’s just a big ol’ house party, except it’s not in our house, right?
My sister, Michelle, seems a little anxious about the wedding. She just wants to make sure her daughters, who are in the ceremony, look the part. Unfortunately for her, I’m the bride, and I have no opinion about colors, flowers, shoes, dresses, hair accessories, etc.
Michelle: “Do you want flowers?”
Me: “Do you want flowers?”
Michelle: “It’s your wedding.”
Me: “True … I don’t think I want to carry flowers around. It’s just one more thing for me to worry about.”
Michelle: “Do you think the girls should have flowers?”
Me: “Do you think the girls should have flowers?”
Finally, she just gave up on asking me these things and called David, who actually has an opinion on such matters.
The only thing I have had a strong opinion about is the bachelorette party. I really just want to have some food and some drinks, talk shit with my best buddies and, maybe, do a little dancing. I don’t want to wear a veil or rubber penises on my head. I don’t want to sport a T-shirt that says, “Mrs. David Tracy” on it. I don’t want some gross male stripper grinding on me. I don’t want to dress slutty and go to some crowded nightclub. I don’t want to go club hopping at all. I guess I’m old. That doesn’t sound like fun to me.
A few years ago, I went to a friend’s bachelorette party. There we were, hanging out in her apartment having some drinks when a male stripper showed up. I think he was dressed as a fireman. Yeah, wow. Some of the ladies were into it, clawing at his, errr, firehose. Not me. I couldn’t get far enough away from him. I hid behind a houseplant. Seriously. But my obvious “Ewww, no thanks” body language just made that stripper want me more. He sought me out and dragged me out from behind the houseplant, lifting me up and the only way I could get out of it was to play along for a minute. Afterward, I ran to the kitchen and washed my hands and proceeded to stay in the kitchen until he left.
Good buddy Kate saw the whole thing. She knows. That’s why I know her and my sister are planning on awesome bachelorette party for me that doesn’t involve strippers, embarrassing headgear or clubbing. We are going to the Tonga Room, where we can drink alcohol out of a bowl like God intended.