Alex and I are getting married in five or six months-ish. This has given me a whole new set of things to freak out about and threaten to destroy. I’m too poor for a wedding, so I’ve been suggesting we elope since the very beginning. Each time, he shuts me down with a very effective set of questions: “Don’t you want to see your nieces all dressed in poofy dresses?” Dammit. Yes.
Being that I’m the offspring of shite, we’ll be financing the entire thing ourselves. This makes things a lot easier to plan:
Who should be our wedding planner? Nope.
Who should be the DJ? Nope.
What should we serve for dinner? Nope.
What’s our exit strategy? Hot air balloon.
One of the earliest things to be struck from the budget list was engagement photos. Of course, I mostly just wanted to follow Maurna’s suggestion to take them in the abandoned wing of the psych hospital, but Alex is turned off by flea bites, dead pigeons, and evil spirits.
“It’s fine,” I said. “We don’t have to have them at all.”
My voice had taken on that distinct tone of ‘Agree with me and I will make you pay for it.’
“If you want them, we can do them,” he said.
His voice had taken on that distinct tone of ‘Please don’t do that thing where you cry again.”
This seems to be our cycle: I think about the wedding, I become frighteningly pensive. We meet up after work to go to the gym. I spontaneously burst into tears, fall to the ground, and begin thrashing about. Alex suggests we skip the gym. I slow my crying and attempt speaking:
“If I put my bra back on, will you drive me to the liquor store?”
I then drink a bottle of wine by myself and text him a long emoji-laden speech about the triumph of the human spirit and how we have each other and THIS IS LOVE and we don’t need to have 14k gold-plated coat hangers with our birthstone-encrusted monogram.
“You’re right babe,” he’ll say. “You’re so right.”
“I love you,” I’ll respond. “So much.”
As you can see, we’re really good at working through things—which is how we ended up finding a photographer who was willing to give us a great deal. I was overjoyed and went on my merry bridal way, booking appointments at wedding dress boutiques and pinning impossible DIY projects on Pinterest. Then I began adding all the dollar signs on my budget and decided that engagement photos were a horrible waste. I cried, we skipped the gym. I then drank a bottle of wine and called Alex for the 3rd time in our relationship. This time, it wasn’t even because I’d smashed a mouse in my car door. I had a very important question:
“What’s the photographer’s name again?”
“Why?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”
“I just want to google her.”
“But you’ve already seen her portfolio. You liked it, remember?”
I can’t help that I feel an intrinsic need to google everyone that crosses my path. Eventually my darling Feyonce surrendered and told me her name, because marriage is all about compromise.
I started by typing her into Facebook, but she wasn’t there.
“What sort of photographer isn’t on Facebook? This is bad. She’s obviously a fraud.”
I did a little more digging, until I’d found her hometown and her college and all her family members and their speeding tickets and voting records. Then I realized I should search her middle name on Facebook. I quickly found her.
“OMG she is adorable. She’s a little hipster sort of person.”
“Oh good,” Alex replied.
“She told me in an email that she’d make me beautiful and I can tell she means it because there’s this photo of her on a bike and she looks so nice.”
“How many glasses of wine have you had?”
I ignored this question and continued my research.
“She has that really great I-don’t-wear-makeup-look that people achieve by wearing a certain kind of not-makeup-looking-makeup.”
“Oh good,” he said.
“Do you think I should friend request her?”
His tone changed.
“No. No, I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.”
“Why not? She looks so nice and small and there’s this photo of her sitting on a bale of hay, holding a cow skull.”
“I think you’re taking it a bit too far. She doesn’t need to know how creepy you are just yet. Let her meet you in person first.”
“Why? WE ARE OBVIOUSLY GOING TO BEST FRIENDS.”
His voice took on that distinct tone of ‘I’m not saying you’re being crazy, but… you’re being crazy.’
“Let’s just wait until after. You don’t want to spook her. I hear photographers spook easily.”
“Oh,” I said, “that makes sense. You’re right. You’re so smart.”
“But she has great cheekbones, I really ought to tell her.”
Alex eventually convinced me to hold off on friending her, but in turn I convinced him to let our photos be taken in a wilderness area that’s notoriously inhabited by homeless people/doubles as a gay park where my own father has admitted to meeting up with strangers. But that’s how this marriage thing works. It’s all about compromising. And we are both already so good at that.
Who have you creepily “friended” on Facebook? Are you good at compromising in relationships? Does wine make your problems better or worse?
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