DAYS REMAINING: 359
There are moments when this entire thing seems impossible. Not the “person I am marrying” part of the process; Eric and I have always thought quite highly of one another during our lengthy courtship. What I’m referring to is the actual event of our nuptials. The “being at my own wedding” part. The moment when we will walk into the room in the pictures from yesterday’s entry, look at our attending friends and family, and know that we are at Our Wedding. In 359 days. In Iceland. It’s a type of outlandish that borders on the supernatural.
Whenever I start to think that way, I look at these pictures:
These are pictures of our Brooklyn apartment before we lived here, pictures sent to me by the former tenants who were moving out after having a baby and discovering it made the place quite a bit smaller. We were living in LA at the time, of course, and knew we would have to find a place from clear across the country. Miranda found the apartment for us on a “Mommy Mafia Of Park Slope” mailing list to which she subscribes, and I flew home by myself for one day to meet the landlord, see the place, sign the lease, buy a bed, and get back in LA in time for work Monday morning.
Here are some more:
I hadn’t lived in New York for over five years. I used to stare at those pictures in disbelief that I would ever end up living there again. It all seemed so theoretical, so academic. And yet it is from that very living room that I’m typing these words. So I’m pretty sure that if we can move across the country together (with our two cats, no less), we can plan a wedding reception that gets us married and gets our friends and family nice and drunk and full. They deserve at least that much.
I know this post wasn’t necessarily about planning (or weddings), but it was either this or the other option, which was to copy and paste five different options for menus with no additional commentary. So, you’re welcome.
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