Please, Sleep, wherever you are, please come back to me.
Spending time on hold for unemployment screwups is not my idea of a good time; especially when my payments are getting delayed and I'm sleep deprived.
Working on tiny details and remembering every little thing for everything I have to do in the next two weeks: not easy when sleep deprived.
Bah.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Things That Made My Day
First:
From Cheryl, a person that I've known since high school, and we've reconnected online (sometimes the internet really can be a wonderful, wonderful place, can't it?):
Cheryl is funny, kind, a responsive reader (we all love comments, don't we?), honest, and creative. If you haven't checked her out before, you should.
Some bloggers that make my day?
I"m going to have to say Doahleigh, MarisKris, WeezerMonkey, Nanette, and Wan! All these ladies are just fun, funny, smart, gorgeous, and genuinely good people....and how many people do you know you can say that about? They lighten my mood, offer advice and support, are always up to good adventures, and I've come to call them friends over the blogging adventure. They are wonderful for many reasons. Recent example: It's not often you hear someone say something nice behind your back. Bbut the other day I clicked on Cheryl's comments, and Nanette had commented, and said she was jealous we knew each other! It made my day that someone would say that. Nanette, I'll come babysit!
But that's just one example among many, many, many.
Other thing that made my day: Dooce's post today. Consider this piece of stunning Prince genius. I could listen to him sing the phone book. Creep, as done by Prince. Just too good. Tooooooo good. Reminds me of the last time I saw him though I didn't get to hear this gem. It won't let embed this for some reason... that is not making my day.
Ok, back to work.
From Cheryl, a person that I've known since high school, and we've reconnected online (sometimes the internet really can be a wonderful, wonderful place, can't it?):
Cheryl is funny, kind, a responsive reader (we all love comments, don't we?), honest, and creative. If you haven't checked her out before, you should.
Some bloggers that make my day?
I"m going to have to say Doahleigh, MarisKris, WeezerMonkey, Nanette, and Wan! All these ladies are just fun, funny, smart, gorgeous, and genuinely good people....and how many people do you know you can say that about? They lighten my mood, offer advice and support, are always up to good adventures, and I've come to call them friends over the blogging adventure. They are wonderful for many reasons. Recent example: It's not often you hear someone say something nice behind your back. Bbut the other day I clicked on Cheryl's comments, and Nanette had commented, and said she was jealous we knew each other! It made my day that someone would say that. Nanette, I'll come babysit!
But that's just one example among many, many, many.
Other thing that made my day: Dooce's post today. Consider this piece of stunning Prince genius. I could listen to him sing the phone book. Creep, as done by Prince. Just too good. Tooooooo good. Reminds me of the last time I saw him though I didn't get to hear this gem. It won't let embed this for some reason... that is not making my day.
Ok, back to work.
Full Time Freaking Out
Yesterday was 30 days until our ceremony date. We'll be in Hawaii in less than 25 days now.
I have more than enough work to keep me busy for many, many extra hours this week. I spent most of the weekend working.
My bank account is nearly empty; freelancing is great, but although you work, work, work, there's no check, check, check until publication or acceptance of the story. Once I get into a rhythm, I know I'll be ok, but I am broke right now.
Less than two months until our reception.
Oh, so much to do, so little time. I didn't sleep last night.
I have more than enough work to keep me busy for many, many extra hours this week. I spent most of the weekend working.
My bank account is nearly empty; freelancing is great, but although you work, work, work, there's no check, check, check until publication or acceptance of the story. Once I get into a rhythm, I know I'll be ok, but I am broke right now.
Less than two months until our reception.
Oh, so much to do, so little time. I didn't sleep last night.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
33 Days
Invitations have gone out. They are arriving in people's mailboxes, or already have. RSVP postcards will be coming back to us soon. We've got a contract for our tent/table/chair rentals for the reception. Two bridal showers down, a bachelorette to go. I'll pick up my tailored dress in a couple of weeks. My wedding sandals are somewhere in a UPS truck, on the way to my parents' front door. William's outfit is ready, his wedding band is sitting in a box on our dresser. I have begun thinking about what I'm packing. I leave for Maui in 29 days.
Everything is real, now. Invitations are arriving. That's the final-final for me—people are officially invited on fancy, letterpressed paper. Finalizing the fine details is now our realm, not pulling magazine pages or figuring out next steps.
I have enough work to keep me on deadline through May 12. I have an overabundance of work, which I hope continues.
I'm overwhelmed, in the best possible way, with change. I have never been much of a risk-taker or instigated a whole lot of change in my life. Mostly, things have happened to me along the way. Now, suddenly, I am on the brink of gigantic life changes, some of the largest I know of, career and marriage. I am surprised at the lack of freaking out, melting down. This tells me, partly, how static I've been, and also how much I must have been craving change, despite my inertia. This is the not the first time I've stepped off the edge and held my breath, made a freefall into something new, but it's definitely the biggest embrace of that tummy-drop feeling I've had, and certainly feels like the first. I almost feel like I could be on one of those makeover shows. . . combined with This Is Your Life. . . the thing is. When it's over, and I'm married. And I'm still writing and editing. It will feel like my every day, like I've never really changed at all. I'm still me and love the same things and strive for the same achievements. What a strange combination.
Today is rainy and dark and I'm stressed about getting a bunch of tasks completed. Two months ago, it would have been a recipe for a terrible, brooding mood. Two months ago I would not have had the tools I needed to lighten my psychic load.
Today is rainy and dark and I am stressed about getting work done. But my energy is different than it used to be. I'm giggling at my sweet, lovable, Muppetish dog, who's snoozing loudly next to me, her paws twitching, her chest heaving as though she is barking, she is sniffing and running in her mind, every once in a while the almost-imperceptible wag of her tail. Surely if she is able to access those good feelings in her mind, so can I. I have all these plans, all this future to think about.
It won't last forever, this high, and I know that. But I only have 30 more days to plan one of the biggest events in my life, this great happiness culminating in forever promises.
I'm riding that wave as long as I can.
Everything is real, now. Invitations are arriving. That's the final-final for me—people are officially invited on fancy, letterpressed paper. Finalizing the fine details is now our realm, not pulling magazine pages or figuring out next steps.
I have enough work to keep me on deadline through May 12. I have an overabundance of work, which I hope continues.
I'm overwhelmed, in the best possible way, with change. I have never been much of a risk-taker or instigated a whole lot of change in my life. Mostly, things have happened to me along the way. Now, suddenly, I am on the brink of gigantic life changes, some of the largest I know of, career and marriage. I am surprised at the lack of freaking out, melting down. This tells me, partly, how static I've been, and also how much I must have been craving change, despite my inertia. This is the not the first time I've stepped off the edge and held my breath, made a freefall into something new, but it's definitely the biggest embrace of that tummy-drop feeling I've had, and certainly feels like the first. I almost feel like I could be on one of those makeover shows. . . combined with This Is Your Life. . . the thing is. When it's over, and I'm married. And I'm still writing and editing. It will feel like my every day, like I've never really changed at all. I'm still me and love the same things and strive for the same achievements. What a strange combination.
Today is rainy and dark and I'm stressed about getting a bunch of tasks completed. Two months ago, it would have been a recipe for a terrible, brooding mood. Two months ago I would not have had the tools I needed to lighten my psychic load.
Today is rainy and dark and I am stressed about getting work done. But my energy is different than it used to be. I'm giggling at my sweet, lovable, Muppetish dog, who's snoozing loudly next to me, her paws twitching, her chest heaving as though she is barking, she is sniffing and running in her mind, every once in a while the almost-imperceptible wag of her tail. Surely if she is able to access those good feelings in her mind, so can I. I have all these plans, all this future to think about.
It won't last forever, this high, and I know that. But I only have 30 more days to plan one of the biggest events in my life, this great happiness culminating in forever promises.
I'm riding that wave as long as I can.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Happy Surgiversary
Two posts, one day! Will wonders never cease?
I haven't blogged about a very important anniversary that took place just three or so weeks ago.
Two years and three-ish weeks ago, I was still living at home. I came home from work to find to my dad on the phone, looking very concerned. I was on my way out of town, and sort of in a rush, but I had a feeling, that kind of thing that stops you in your tracks. I get this feeling occasionally, sometimes and it's wrong, but this time I was right.
My dad hung up the phone and told my mom and I that he had lung cancer. I almost can't describe what happened to me next. I felt like someone took my stomach and turned it inside out and brought it through my throat and squeezed the oxygen out of me. My knees felt weak. I came uncorked. Suddenly and instantly, the three of us (and more, once the news had spread) had a new wound, nerves exposed, something that would eventually scar with time, but never disappear—most literally, my dad's.
My dad quit smoking that day. He had to detoxify before they took half of his lung, two weeks from then.
I went to William's house, mostly because my mom told me to still go, and we left the next morning for our weekend trip. I cried. That's an understatement. I cry a lot. It's easy to make me cry. If I'm mad I cry. If I'm sad, I cry. I cry if I hear happy news or I get a nice gift. I cry at fictional movies, talking animals, Pedigree commercials, the national anthem, and even sometimes when reality TV people win awards. But this cry was so different. I could not stop. Completely unhinged. I barely knew his parents at that point (he was also living at home). I know I must have looked a hot mess. I acted, I hoped, like nothing was wrong. Clearly, something was wrong.
Then I went into his bedroom, and I sobbed. We had to run an errand to the bookstore. He told me I could stay there but I thought I'd stop if we went somewhere public. Nope. I cried through the bookstore looking completely insane. Then we went back to his house. I sobbed on his bed until I passed out. It took a long time. I managed to chap my face.
William was my rock during that time, he really was. I learned I could trust him with my emotions and that he loved me no matter the news. William allowed me to cry in his arms and then celebrated the victories that came our way as my dad underwent his surgery and recovery.
Eventually, I determined that I would not carry on this way. I couldn't. I had to keep going, despite the fact that I felt like I was wading through cement. I decided that I wouldn't mourn the situation—and more importantly, my dad. He was alive and had gotten the best possible news when you hear you have cancer. That it's contained, that it can be taken out, and that you may not even need radiation or chemo.
One thing that helped was the fortitude of my friends. Kilipino told me how my dad was a superhero, Superman, and that he would fight off the evil forces of cancer. She would carry on with it until I laughed, sending me emails midday at work, knowing full well I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch, trying not to be morose. She brought my dad a gigantic mylar Superman balloon, which still resides in my parents' front closet, deflated but standing watch. My friend A. would send me emails—we could commiserate, as her mom had been diagnosed with a different kind—and I felt she really knew how it felt, which is really important when you are facing such a trial. There were also many other people who contributed thoughts, prayers, well wishes, and kindnesses during this time. To be honest, I was sometimes numb, lost in my head, and I hope I have acknowledged them all at some point.
I moved in with William in April, two years ago. Probably, actually, this week two years ago. So that's an anniversary in itself. But in 2006, spring turned to summer turned to fall. My dad managed to get away with no chemo or radiation, just a very painful and slow-healing surgery. He definitely has the strength of Superman. Truly.
Today, I was out for a walk with William and Mo—it was gorgeous here today and so we walked down by the mighty Mississip—and my mom called. It was loud where I was, so I let it go to voicemail, planning to call her back in about 15 minutes. She said, in her somewhat neutral voice, "I have some news, so could you call me back?" I knew that my dad had had a check-up scan a couple of weeks ago; he'd told me about it. I had been worrying, of course, as I always do, in this lopsided way of mine. I'd put it out of my mind. Then I'd start worrying about possibilities and when we'd hear results. Then I'd quickly shut off the worrying by saying to myself that he was FINE and only positive thoughts were allowed. No worrying. Only reinforcing.
I called my mom back, forgetting about the wind and traffic. He got his letter. There have been no changes in his scans. No cancer growths, no weird spots or darknesses or blurry areas. Unchanged. Unchanged as when he left the hospital two years ago, when cancer had been forcibly removed from his chest, open from chest to back, all the way around his shoulder blade, a scar like the trip around Cape Horn on a map. I was about two blocks from home as my mom told me this, and just like that first day when cancer became a household term for us, tears, uncontrolled, streaming down my face. William held out his hand, first thumbs-up, then thumbs down, with an inquiring look on his face, as my face and my words were not exactly matching.
I had celebrated silently a couple of weeks ago when my dad's surgiversary came up, when the doctor had told us he could be hunting and fishing still twenty years from now. But I had held my breath because I knew he had another check-up scan coming soon.
Thumbs up. My dad is healthy. Two years running. Hawaii, here we come.
I haven't blogged about a very important anniversary that took place just three or so weeks ago.
Two years and three-ish weeks ago, I was still living at home. I came home from work to find to my dad on the phone, looking very concerned. I was on my way out of town, and sort of in a rush, but I had a feeling, that kind of thing that stops you in your tracks. I get this feeling occasionally, sometimes and it's wrong, but this time I was right.
My dad hung up the phone and told my mom and I that he had lung cancer. I almost can't describe what happened to me next. I felt like someone took my stomach and turned it inside out and brought it through my throat and squeezed the oxygen out of me. My knees felt weak. I came uncorked. Suddenly and instantly, the three of us (and more, once the news had spread) had a new wound, nerves exposed, something that would eventually scar with time, but never disappear—most literally, my dad's.
My dad quit smoking that day. He had to detoxify before they took half of his lung, two weeks from then.
I went to William's house, mostly because my mom told me to still go, and we left the next morning for our weekend trip. I cried. That's an understatement. I cry a lot. It's easy to make me cry. If I'm mad I cry. If I'm sad, I cry. I cry if I hear happy news or I get a nice gift. I cry at fictional movies, talking animals, Pedigree commercials, the national anthem, and even sometimes when reality TV people win awards. But this cry was so different. I could not stop. Completely unhinged. I barely knew his parents at that point (he was also living at home). I know I must have looked a hot mess. I acted, I hoped, like nothing was wrong. Clearly, something was wrong.
Then I went into his bedroom, and I sobbed. We had to run an errand to the bookstore. He told me I could stay there but I thought I'd stop if we went somewhere public. Nope. I cried through the bookstore looking completely insane. Then we went back to his house. I sobbed on his bed until I passed out. It took a long time. I managed to chap my face.
William was my rock during that time, he really was. I learned I could trust him with my emotions and that he loved me no matter the news. William allowed me to cry in his arms and then celebrated the victories that came our way as my dad underwent his surgery and recovery.
Eventually, I determined that I would not carry on this way. I couldn't. I had to keep going, despite the fact that I felt like I was wading through cement. I decided that I wouldn't mourn the situation—and more importantly, my dad. He was alive and had gotten the best possible news when you hear you have cancer. That it's contained, that it can be taken out, and that you may not even need radiation or chemo.
One thing that helped was the fortitude of my friends. Kilipino told me how my dad was a superhero, Superman, and that he would fight off the evil forces of cancer. She would carry on with it until I laughed, sending me emails midday at work, knowing full well I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch, trying not to be morose. She brought my dad a gigantic mylar Superman balloon, which still resides in my parents' front closet, deflated but standing watch. My friend A. would send me emails—we could commiserate, as her mom had been diagnosed with a different kind—and I felt she really knew how it felt, which is really important when you are facing such a trial. There were also many other people who contributed thoughts, prayers, well wishes, and kindnesses during this time. To be honest, I was sometimes numb, lost in my head, and I hope I have acknowledged them all at some point.
I moved in with William in April, two years ago. Probably, actually, this week two years ago. So that's an anniversary in itself. But in 2006, spring turned to summer turned to fall. My dad managed to get away with no chemo or radiation, just a very painful and slow-healing surgery. He definitely has the strength of Superman. Truly.
Today, I was out for a walk with William and Mo—it was gorgeous here today and so we walked down by the mighty Mississip—and my mom called. It was loud where I was, so I let it go to voicemail, planning to call her back in about 15 minutes. She said, in her somewhat neutral voice, "I have some news, so could you call me back?" I knew that my dad had had a check-up scan a couple of weeks ago; he'd told me about it. I had been worrying, of course, as I always do, in this lopsided way of mine. I'd put it out of my mind. Then I'd start worrying about possibilities and when we'd hear results. Then I'd quickly shut off the worrying by saying to myself that he was FINE and only positive thoughts were allowed. No worrying. Only reinforcing.
I called my mom back, forgetting about the wind and traffic. He got his letter. There have been no changes in his scans. No cancer growths, no weird spots or darknesses or blurry areas. Unchanged. Unchanged as when he left the hospital two years ago, when cancer had been forcibly removed from his chest, open from chest to back, all the way around his shoulder blade, a scar like the trip around Cape Horn on a map. I was about two blocks from home as my mom told me this, and just like that first day when cancer became a household term for us, tears, uncontrolled, streaming down my face. William held out his hand, first thumbs-up, then thumbs down, with an inquiring look on his face, as my face and my words were not exactly matching.
I had celebrated silently a couple of weeks ago when my dad's surgiversary came up, when the doctor had told us he could be hunting and fishing still twenty years from now. But I had held my breath because I knew he had another check-up scan coming soon.
Thumbs up. My dad is healthy. Two years running. Hawaii, here we come.
Wake me up before you go-go
I think it's pretty well documented that I am not a morning person. I blame this squarely on a combo of my parents' night-owl genes (neither of them are much for mornings, or weren't) and thyroid disease. Once I developed thyroid disease, my sleep was never the same. I often feel tired, and when I hit the pillow, I'm down for the count. I rarely remember my dreams.
But I think the anticipation of this wedding has taken a fierce hold. I often feel pumped with adrenaline, wanting to be productive, wondering what I can conquer next. In the mornings, the alarm goes off for William, and trained like a cube prisoner that I was, I roll over and hit the sleep button. He always gets out of bed before the second alarm goes off, but I never realize it. I roll over to tell him to get up with the second alarm, only to find a rumpled mass of covers and the hear the sound of the shower running. I often doze while he gets ready, but he wakes me before he leaves, gently chiding me, "Wake up, love. Time to make the big bucks!" While my body-clock MO feels like I could sleep for hours more, once he closes and locks are door, all sleep bets are off. I'm usually out of bed 10 minutes later and planning my day. I can remember dreams, laced with anxiety: books I forgot to bring to class, running late for the ceremony, not getting my sandals in time.
Two Saturdays ago, I had a shower thrown in my honor at my future mother-in-law's home. It was so lovely. As soon as I get photos, I will post more details. I set my alarm that morning to make sure I'd be up early enough to get ready and not be rushed.I didn't need the alarm. I think I was bleary-eyed but awake around 7 am. I laid there for a while but eventually the butterflies propelled me out of bed. The following Saturday was a little more subdued and both William and I slept in til 11—super late for us these days. It felt heavenly. that might be my last sleeping-in until after the wedding.
Sunday I had my bridal shower thrown by my two best girls, Cindy and Sooz. Ding! Awake at like 8. This is just not ME, people. (Again, more shower details when I get photos). I was over there an hour early, just hanging around at my sister's house, because well, I was driving myself crazy at home. I was nervous. I never used to mind attention, but the older I get, the more I'd like to just show up at the party, and enjoy it, than be the guest of honor. Not that I don't appreciate the effort—I really and truly do, and they did an amazing job. There's just a lot of pressure, being that person.
Freelance work is also keeping me busy and creating a certain amount of anxiety—to get it all done in time, to have it done well, to hit the deadlines, to keep myself focused. Since I have been busy with invites and guest lists and rental stuff for the backyard, it makes it even harder. And with boxes lying around with shiny new appliances and electrics and nesting bowls and everything else, I couldn't even concentrate yesterday. I have another two or three freelance jobs lined up. They aren't glamorous but they are good and steady and a paycheck and a way to support myself a little while longer. I also had a big opportunity come through for some regular freelance work that I am pretty excited about, so we'll see how that goes. I'll keep you posted.
So today, after all that sleep talk—I'm exhausted. I can't seem to wake up from the dream-sludge state, despite my invigorating shower and grapefruit aromatherapy and tea and everything else. Again, this morning, as soon as I heard William's voice—I was up, even though we were up until midnight planning the backyard layout for the reception and talking budget for the wedding. I was so keyed up when we went to bed, I had to read to calm down. In the words of Penny Lane from Almost Famous—it's all happening. And I don't want to waste time sleeping, in case I miss it all.
But I think the anticipation of this wedding has taken a fierce hold. I often feel pumped with adrenaline, wanting to be productive, wondering what I can conquer next. In the mornings, the alarm goes off for William, and trained like a cube prisoner that I was, I roll over and hit the sleep button. He always gets out of bed before the second alarm goes off, but I never realize it. I roll over to tell him to get up with the second alarm, only to find a rumpled mass of covers and the hear the sound of the shower running. I often doze while he gets ready, but he wakes me before he leaves, gently chiding me, "Wake up, love. Time to make the big bucks!" While my body-clock MO feels like I could sleep for hours more, once he closes and locks are door, all sleep bets are off. I'm usually out of bed 10 minutes later and planning my day. I can remember dreams, laced with anxiety: books I forgot to bring to class, running late for the ceremony, not getting my sandals in time.
Two Saturdays ago, I had a shower thrown in my honor at my future mother-in-law's home. It was so lovely. As soon as I get photos, I will post more details. I set my alarm that morning to make sure I'd be up early enough to get ready and not be rushed.I didn't need the alarm. I think I was bleary-eyed but awake around 7 am. I laid there for a while but eventually the butterflies propelled me out of bed. The following Saturday was a little more subdued and both William and I slept in til 11—super late for us these days. It felt heavenly. that might be my last sleeping-in until after the wedding.
Sunday I had my bridal shower thrown by my two best girls, Cindy and Sooz. Ding! Awake at like 8. This is just not ME, people. (Again, more shower details when I get photos). I was over there an hour early, just hanging around at my sister's house, because well, I was driving myself crazy at home. I was nervous. I never used to mind attention, but the older I get, the more I'd like to just show up at the party, and enjoy it, than be the guest of honor. Not that I don't appreciate the effort—I really and truly do, and they did an amazing job. There's just a lot of pressure, being that person.
Freelance work is also keeping me busy and creating a certain amount of anxiety—to get it all done in time, to have it done well, to hit the deadlines, to keep myself focused. Since I have been busy with invites and guest lists and rental stuff for the backyard, it makes it even harder. And with boxes lying around with shiny new appliances and electrics and nesting bowls and everything else, I couldn't even concentrate yesterday. I have another two or three freelance jobs lined up. They aren't glamorous but they are good and steady and a paycheck and a way to support myself a little while longer. I also had a big opportunity come through for some regular freelance work that I am pretty excited about, so we'll see how that goes. I'll keep you posted.
So today, after all that sleep talk—I'm exhausted. I can't seem to wake up from the dream-sludge state, despite my invigorating shower and grapefruit aromatherapy and tea and everything else. Again, this morning, as soon as I heard William's voice—I was up, even though we were up until midnight planning the backyard layout for the reception and talking budget for the wedding. I was so keyed up when we went to bed, I had to read to calm down. In the words of Penny Lane from Almost Famous—it's all happening. And I don't want to waste time sleeping, in case I miss it all.
Monday, April 14, 2008
43 Days Until I Do
In less than 40 days, I will be flying through space and eventually touching down in Maui—paradise—with my fiancé at my side.
My luggage will not get lost. They will let me bring the dress on the plane. We will get an upgrade to first class. There will be champagne.
Right? These are my dreams. We will have a non-turbulent, smooth flight and I will be Xanaxed out and feeling strangely fine, anticipatory, excited and scared, as I have been feeling lately. I will tell everyone who will listen that we are getting married. We will get off the plane and get lei'd, we will get a car, and we will spend our first (second-trip) night in paradise with William's parents, as they were kind enough to offer their lodging for our first night's stay.
Friday morning we will rise with the waves, get some breakfast, and head over to the licensing office for applying for our marriage license. We will not get lost on our way. We will sign all the forms and giggle over the absurdity of becoming adults, of doing adult things like apply for licenses and vow to be together forever. We pick up my family that night from the airport, and make our way to the house they have rented in south Maui, near the beach where we will be wed.
We will spend the sunsoaked weekend with cold, sweaty-glassed mai tais, our happy families, the salty taste of the ocean in our mouths, the sun on our very sunscreened faces. No one will get burned before the wedding. Or they will, and it won't matter.
Monday night, William will go sleep at his parents's place. I may have to take another Xanax. I'll get everything ready for the next morning, bring out the dress, steam it if needed, make sure all the details are taken care of. Hopefully we'll still be on Minnesota time, because we will be wed at 9:30 a.m. the next morning. I will rise early, probably leaping out of bed like the first day of school, except it will be the first day of the rest of my love life. I will manage to get fake lashes on. We will make it to South Maluaka Beach on time, everyone in tow, happy, ready. I will not cry too hard when my dad lets go of my arm. I will say my vows and mean them.
Afterward, there will be mimosas and food and swimming and joy. Joy joy joy. Family and close friends and hugs and tears and huge smiles. All this anticipation has led to this, this celebration, these words, these feelings and I will be a married woman, waves crashing and tropical breezes scented with ocean and plumeria, and warm sand scratching our feet. And William will be my husband, not any more my groom, not any more my fiancé. He will be my husband and I will be his wife. It will be the first days of the rest of our joined-love life.
My luggage will not get lost. They will let me bring the dress on the plane. We will get an upgrade to first class. There will be champagne.
Right? These are my dreams. We will have a non-turbulent, smooth flight and I will be Xanaxed out and feeling strangely fine, anticipatory, excited and scared, as I have been feeling lately. I will tell everyone who will listen that we are getting married. We will get off the plane and get lei'd, we will get a car, and we will spend our first (second-trip) night in paradise with William's parents, as they were kind enough to offer their lodging for our first night's stay.
Friday morning we will rise with the waves, get some breakfast, and head over to the licensing office for applying for our marriage license. We will not get lost on our way. We will sign all the forms and giggle over the absurdity of becoming adults, of doing adult things like apply for licenses and vow to be together forever. We pick up my family that night from the airport, and make our way to the house they have rented in south Maui, near the beach where we will be wed.
We will spend the sunsoaked weekend with cold, sweaty-glassed mai tais, our happy families, the salty taste of the ocean in our mouths, the sun on our very sunscreened faces. No one will get burned before the wedding. Or they will, and it won't matter.
Monday night, William will go sleep at his parents's place. I may have to take another Xanax. I'll get everything ready for the next morning, bring out the dress, steam it if needed, make sure all the details are taken care of. Hopefully we'll still be on Minnesota time, because we will be wed at 9:30 a.m. the next morning. I will rise early, probably leaping out of bed like the first day of school, except it will be the first day of the rest of my love life. I will manage to get fake lashes on. We will make it to South Maluaka Beach on time, everyone in tow, happy, ready. I will not cry too hard when my dad lets go of my arm. I will say my vows and mean them.
Afterward, there will be mimosas and food and swimming and joy. Joy joy joy. Family and close friends and hugs and tears and huge smiles. All this anticipation has led to this, this celebration, these words, these feelings and I will be a married woman, waves crashing and tropical breezes scented with ocean and plumeria, and warm sand scratching our feet. And William will be my husband, not any more my groom, not any more my fiancé. He will be my husband and I will be his wife. It will be the first days of the rest of our joined-love life.
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