We’ve got nine days to go before our wedding finally happens. The last few weeks have bounced between totally bearable and complete anxiety. I haven’t really made time to blog at all; it’s kind of tough to get any time to myself in my parents’ house with my four-year-old nephew, and even when I do have some downtime, generally I am too frazzled and exhausted to put any thoughts in order.
But yesterday was a bad day. The dynamic of my fiance’s family is just… not healthy. Apparently nobody in that family besides Fiance ever learned how to deal with interpersonal conflict in a remotely adult manner. I won’t go into details, naturally, but at any rate, we attempted to resolve an issue that was raised, in the interests of not spending every single family gathering for the rest of our lives being forced to rehash what terrible people we are. But giving in was apparently the wrong choice and now his parents are refusing to speak to him until next week when they get here for the wedding. Because that is what grown ups do, obviously.
A bunch of other, little things, went wrong the same day. Like we took some snacks and iced tea to a park just to kind of relax and be alone for a little while, but the instant I opened my box of cheese and fruit, I was swarmed by yellow jackets. I didn’t get stung but I didn’t get to eat anything, either.
I was in a bad mood and super stressed, so I took some passion flower extract which Fiance had just bought because he heard it helps control anxiety because of a naturally-occurring benzodiazapine (the class of drugs to which things like Xanax belong) in the flower. And it worked… sort of. I wasn’t angry and anxious anymore, but instead of the sense of calm and wellbeing that comes with Xanax, I just got very, very, very sad. I spent the rest of the night either crying or watching My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. If I stopped watching ponies, tears would just pour out of my eyes for no apparent reason. Basically it was horrible. I finally had to finish myself off with a couple of antihistamines so I could sleep.
Today I feel better. But I’m still wondering why something that is ostensibly a happy occasion has to turn into such a clusterfuck of hurt feelings and douchebaggery.
The whole “Bridezilla” phenomenon makes a lot more sense to me now than I ever would have thought possible. Because the main takeaway for me from this whole experience is that it doesn’t matter how much you try to accommodate people’s desires: they will never be happy.
They want you to have the exact wedding that they want you to have, and nothing else will do. From who to invite, what to wear, where to hold it, what to serve, even who should be in your wedding party: Everyone knows better than you do, and no matter how gently you attempt to have this conversation, if you don’t do what they want you to do, you’re a terrible, ungrateful person.
So: if a big fancy wedding is something that’s important to you, be a Bridezilla. It’s really the only way. If a big fancy wedding isn’t something that’s important to you, for the love of gods don’t make the mistake I made. Don’t agree to have one just to make someone else happy. Elope.
All we ever wanted was a small courthouse ceremony with our nearest and dearest, followed by a nice meal on some restaurant patio.
I wish I’d put my foot down eighteen months ago. I wish I’d been a Bridezilla.