Sunday, March 30, 2008
In the past few weeks, I have been loved up and down and sideways, and not just by ECG.
My church family and friends threw me a wedding shower that included all sorts of females, ages 17 to 107. Each guest wrote me a wedding advice card. One of the more interesting cards came from a 70-odd year old couple who wrote, "When you fight—and you will fight—fight nude."
My closest local budettes created a nearly-spontaneous bachelorette party that ended up with a few of us swaying back and forth, singing along with a strange young man in a Gustav Klimt tshirt who played Journey songs on the grand piano in the early hours of the morning. Don't stop believing, hang on to this fe-e-e-ling.
At work, a few dear people put together a little after-the-school-day shower for me with margaritas and plenty of estrogen. It was a sweet, special time that I didn't know to expect. Earlier in the same day, the wrestling coach, a man famous for his winning record and non-existent smile, came up and hugged me.
And finally (I hesitate to say finally because the love keeps coming at me), Saturday night a few friends came over, and after a meal of take-out and champagne, tried out multiple versions of potential wedding-day make-up palettes. I am not a make-up person and needed all the help I could get. I think—I hope—we found a winner.
Now, I am in the midst of the multitudes of preparations for the actual event. Dress, a spectacular purple number, check. Guests and their housing and transportation, check. Music mix for dinner and dancing, including song requests from the guests so everybody gets at least one of their favorites, check. Wedding rings, simple and eternal, check. Parents who have done so much work to make this a beautiful, meaningful, intimate event in their town, check. The best husband-to-be in the world: I have him, in spades. I am one lucky, lucky woman. By this time next Sunday, I'll be married and will probably already be dancing. I'll be dancing my way with my husband to the airport next Tuesday and across the ocean to Italy. We'll take a drunken waltz up the boot of Italy, a sweet slow number back across the ocean, and we have all of our lives to learn to dance to the rhythms we encounter along the way.
So, for a bit, as I prepare for and begin the rest of my life, I'll leave my home, garden, and pets, flowers, and blog in the hands of dear friends.
I'll see you in a few weeks.