So, now that the wedding is officially next month -- holy shit! (or, my new favorite expression thanks to Hollis Gillespie, Jesus God!) -- I am starting to have panic tantrums. Not panic attacks, not exactly temper tantrums, but periods of anxiety and depression in which I bitch and whine and shuffle around like a sad little street urchin (Jeff calls it my "mime walk", as I tend to slouch sideways as if miming descending a flight of stairs). Yesterday I became overwhelmed during a tango lesson and, well, there's a reason you don't often see depressed people tango -- nothing says Latin passion like an empty, forlorn stare. We called it quits early and I self-medicated with fashion magazines. So far so good.
The thing about being a perfectionist when you're getting married is that it's kind of the Tour de France for the Type A psycho in you. A wedding is a showcase for all of your perfectness -- perfect music, perfect ceremony, perfect hair, perfect dress, perfect skin. If you're learning a dance, it's gotta be perfect, and if you're making programs, they've gotta be perfect, too. Obviously, this is subjective, but unless you're totally laid-back or reaaaalllly high all the time, getting married starts to feel like competing in a pageant. Friends and family call me to give blow-by-blows of weddings they go to: "It was okay, but yours will be better," or "They didn't have a cake. Can you believe that??". Like it or not, we judge weddings, giving points for style and originality but taking them away for not fitting the nationally recognized wedding template. Walk down the aisle to G n' R? Sorry. Forgo favors? You're screwed.
Luckily my fiancee is not like me in this way. Last night, he had a great time even though it was not our best dancing. In the midst of my tantrum, he held my hand and smiled. "Even if you don't do 800 sit-ups, even if you trip over your foot when we dance, you are my perfect mate," he said (I swear! He really said that! I would not make up anything that sappy and perfect!), "and I love you."
I can't end it like that, being obnoxious and going all soft when you were probably hoping for a bitchfest. So I'll end it like this: My "Mrs. Poo Pants" undies came in the mail, but they don't say "Mrs.". They just say "Poo Pants". Kind of a different message. Especially on underwear. So I might look pretty on my wedding day, but underneath it all, it will say "Poo Pants" on my ass.