I have always loved weddings, but all that oohing and ahhing and sipping on free champagne is usually mixed with an odd feeling. To me, it's a strange tradition, as it's one of the few things we celebrate (so intensely) at the beginning of the story. There are more retirement parties than I-got-the-job hooplas. We celebrate births, of course, but we celebrate birthdays much more extravagantly. We have graduation parties, not first-day-of-school blowouts.
With a marriage—those marriages that are kicked off by weddings, at least—the celebrating happens at the beginning, and I've never quite understood this. Which is why I've felt the constant need to apologize over the last nine months for all I've asked of our friends and family. I've felt we haven't earned all this fuss. We've asked our parents for financial help, we've asked for pretty heavy time commitments from our friends and my bridesmaids had to supply me with gallons of tequila at the bachelorette party. We know, five four days out from our wedding day, the sacrifices have been many and I can't help but feel indebted.
I think this is my one regret. My inability to let go of my deep concern for putting people out and my desire to make this as fun and enjoyable for others as it is for us. Regardless of what anyone says, a wedding—in my opinion—shouldn't just be about the couple. It is about those who helped get us here, who carried us when we needed it, who encouraged and supported and knocked some sense into us, also. But, I know—and I know this in my bones, which is what frustrates me for losing sight of it—the people who really love us will find joy in our joy and they won't need anything from us except our happiness.
It's still tough, as even those who love us don't always understand our choices and I usually feel compelled to explain them, to find the perfect words to make a situation easier on someone else. That's my giant flaw (along with 86 others, including Doesn't know how to turn off lights). I'd simply rather be uncomfortable than for you to be.
I've enjoyed being Mike's fiance. I've loved it with every part of me, actually. Being his fiance. I've loved the sound of it. And the hope that has come along with it. We have been able to talk about our future kids without knowing if we'll have any trouble conceiving them. We have envisioned our future house without the stress of figuring out how to finance it. We have planned our yearly trips for the next 15 years because in this moment we don't have to worry about getting time off work or who will watch Molly or how much money will be in our savings account at that time. (Note to self: Open savings account. Also: Deposit money into it.) I've also loved planning this wedding. I haven't loved every second of it, no, but I know I'm more excited about being Mike's wife than the other parts and that's provided me with a level of sanity. But the constant attempts to please others, and the coming up short more often than not, well, that hasn't been much fun, and it's exhausted me.
Yesterday was busy. Between work and last-minute phone calls and errands at lunch and the commute (DALLAS TRAFFIC? HOW'S IT GOING? I FLIPPING HATE YOU.) and the coming home to a grouchy man who had to shop all day and then we went back out shopping, together, and spent HOURS looking for luggage and sunglasses and a laptop bag and travel-sized containers and dinner and then we got home and I had to do some work, and then finally we were done. Mike was making toast and this conversation occurred:
Mike: You only have two pieces of your bread left.
Jennie: WHAT? ARE THEY THE ENDS? I HATE THE ENDS. DON'T GIVE ME THE ENDS.
M: No, two pieces plus the ends.
J: Oh, you can just throw those stupid ends away. I hate the ends. Can I get a word?
M: Word?
J: Yeah, as in you agree with me.
M: But I don't agree with you. I happen to be the campaign manager for the anti-throwing-the-ends-of-bread-away organization.
J: Campaign of one, you weirdo.
Mike has done this throughout. He has made me laugh. He has made the quiet moments more meaningful and the crazy moments calmer. He has never asked anything of me, in this engagement or in this relationship. He has always been just fine with who I am. And, he has consistently forgiven my shortcomings better than anyone else in my life, except my mother (he would totally agree that she trumps him). He has worked through the stress with me, while heightening the enjoyment of everything fun. Mike has—and always has—made me feel safe enough to be me. Yes, he does roll his eyes and ask me to keep my voice down when I'm screaming in Wal-Mart, "YOU ARE NOT TARGET, WHY DO YOU EVEN TRY TO BE?", but only because it's important to both of us we stop getting asked to leave stores. He doesn't get disappointed in me, he doesn't get let down. And because of him, I'm working on not getting disappointed in myself and not letting myself down, either. He has shown me the beauty of an ordinary life, a life filled with bad TV, torturing the dog, too much beer, lots of traveling and laughing at things only deemed funny by 13 year olds. Through all this madness (the good, the bad, the ugly and the superb) he has been where I turn. My home.
He has told me, daily, that our life will all work out, it will all be OK, we're some of the lucky ones, we're going to have fun, we have it good, we can only do our best, we have to rise above the stress and the hurt and he loves me.
Michael, I believe you.
Let's do this.