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I am paying you to know my name. . .


Ah the joys of wedding planning. Have I harped on this subject enough yet?
Despite a perusal of many of my latest blog posts, which might say otherwise, I say--definitely not.

So I shall over-share with you my most recent adventure in planning.

It's a strange dichotomy this "your big day" thing. I'm constantly being told it's "my big day". Like, mine, personally. As though I did something particularly bright and shiny. Last time I checked I graduated from college four years ago, haven't accomplished my Oprah-Martha-HGTV-superstar status yet, and sometimes am a really huge cranky biatch beast.

Last time I checked we are no longer paying dowries. I am not a prized pony who was wily enough to trick a man of means into supporting me for the rest of my life. I am not a child bride from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (which I am not admitting to you that I have watched) who has to have a dress as big as a boat to impress my friends, and distract from the fact that after this day, I will basically live a life of indentured servitude to my husband and the children I will be expected to have. (Does anyone else not watch that show and not find it super depressing?)

Last time I checked it takes two to tango. You know, me and the man who are taking that big plunge and committing to a life together.

I thought it was supposed to be our big day.

But, alas I was wrong. It is not our big day, John and Rachel.

It is, according to various vendors, directed at us: Rachel & Travis, Rebecca & Michael, or Sarah & Bryan's big day.

WTF people. You are really bursting my feeling special bubble here.

Just when I was losing faith, we scheduled a meeting with a man of God. Our officiant. I knew he wouldn't fail us.

We went to meet him. He came towards us, a halo of light shinning down on him, I knew he'd do it, he'd save us from all the bad vendors who have let us down. . .

"Oh hello, you must be Irene! And is this your fiance Brennan?"

We're doomed.