“Lovers must not, like usurers, live for themselves alone.” – Wendell Berry
Saturday the florist came by the house, dropping off a jarful of flowers from the wedding of the day. The little jar was filled with sweet peas, lisianthus, Icelandic poppies, ferns, myrtle, and peonies. She applies floriography to her designs, and so arranged into that glass jar are success, sincerity, appreciation, and happy marriage. She asked me if I had any particular wishes for the floriography of my own wedding, and I said “the usual stuff.”
That’s where my mind’s at these days: a bit filmy, foggy, and teeming with tasks that seem to have bred and multiplied vast generations in the unquiet swamp of my hindbrain. I couldn’t summon any more will or energy to reach for anything specific when yet another question was applied to me by a kind and well-meaning wedding vendor.
The go-to question for office colleagues and acquaintances these days is “how’s wedding planning going?” And I waffle between saying fine and moving on, or doing the beleaguered-but-happy shrug and saying it’s a lot of work but I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end! To friends, and everyone else who actually gives a damn, I say it’s like being nibbled to death by ducks.
What caught me unawares were all the feelings and expectations that reared their heads over the past months. What I thought would happen was: we would find a nice place, wear nice clothing, have family and friends there, have a good party and be done. Simply put, it was not so simple.
Wedding planning has thrown into sharp relief a real flaw in my character: I am indecisive. Full of lip-chewing doubts and second guesses. It serves me well in my work life, where mistakes are unacceptable and costly, and constant reviewing and re-reviewing is par for the course. But it makes event planning hellish. Moreover I find that planning my own wedding resurrects some old demons for me, where family, self-esteem, and obligation intersect. I never perceived of myself as a chronic worrywart, but here I sit. There is so much to do, and so many expectations–others’ and my own.
I suspect that I’m inching more and more into that beige, pleasant land of I don’t give a shit anymore. Step 8 of my mood cycle. The good news is that the end is in sight.