“Pink is my signature color.”
- Shelby, “Steel Magnolias”

So here’s the dilemma.

It’s very hard for me to be excited about my upcoming wedding.

Why, you may ask?

Because I feel incredibly vain.

I know.  It’s stupid.  And I’ve tried to get over it.  But I feel like the spoiled little Bridezilla whenever I’m asked my opinion on ANYTHING. 

First, let’s start with the man.  I’m so incredibly blessed to have found him.

I feel very, very lucky to be having a huge party with people I love around me.  I feel even more special when it’s being held in the Grand Hall, a place I’d loved for many years and often thought about celebrating my reception in.  Throw in the fact that I’m wearing this grand dress, a perfect dress, FOR JUST ONE NIGHT and I feel very silly.  Very lavish indeed.  And unnecessarily so.

I feel horrible asking anyone to do anything as part of my wedding, because it feels so damn self-serving.  “Come buy a dress for a bazillion dollars to celebrate me and how fantastic I am.”  See?  It sounds awful.  Feels awful.

How should they wear their hair?  I don’t know; it’s THEIR hair.  They know how it looks best.  What shoes?  I don’t know; what kind of shoes do you like?  Do you want a lined envelope with the invitations? 

I’m the thrift store girl.  I’m not sure I deserve all of this.

People all around me are having real events.  Real, life-changing events.  Babies are being born.  They’re getting fantastic jobs.  They’re buying property.  While this is a great event for ME, and it feels wonderful to ME, I just feel guilty demanding everyone else join in.

I’m a hippie at heart.

“Well, you know what they say:
if you don’t have anything nice to say about anybody,
come sit by me!”
- Clairee, “Steel Magnolias”

It’s eleven-thirty.  It’s the first time I’ve been able to sit down at a computer all day.  And, quite frankly, I’m making time now.. I have about five more things I could go be wrapped up in.

I love being busy.  Don’t misunderstand.  But I do miss pouring over a post every now and again, instead of typing at a rapid frenzied pace so that I can have some sort of crap for you people to read.  I like it when I can go back a year later, read the stuff I’ve written, and marvel at how clever I’ve been. 

I’ve been too busy to be clever, as of late, and for that, I apologize.

I had two occurrences in particular that I wanted to transcribe, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll talk about one here and save the longer one for later. 

It sounds crazy and stupid and childish, but I cried at work today.  In my defense, it was completely non-work related.

One of my managers, one that I like very much, had his mother pass away last week.  He’s been gone since then, so I bought a card of condolences and had everyone sign it, and I took up a collection.  I knew his mother was greatly involved in a local charity, so we’re making the contribution in her name. 

He returned today.

I took the card over and approached him.  His back was to me, and he was trying to catch up on a week’s worth of email.  Although we’re usually very catty with eachother, I put my hand on his shoulder.  He didn’t move.

“Hey, honey,” I said, softly.  “We’re glad to have you back.”  And I slipped the card on his desk, under his arm.  “Everyone has missed you greatly.”

He still didn’t move.  I didn’t take my hand away.

“We’ve taken up a collection and are making a donation in your mother’s name,” I said, again, softly.  No movement.

I really was at a loss.  I wondered if he even had heard me.  Finally, I asked, “Is there anything you need me to do?”

His hand reached up and held mine on his shoulder.  And he sniffled.  His body trembled slightly, and I realized he was stiffling back sobs.  And he choked out, “You’ve done more than enough.”

And in our world of forced ethics and workplace decorum, I did something I’m not supposed to do.  I stayed behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest.  I rocked him back and forth, trying to maintain his dignity by not making eye contact, while his body shook and he cried. 

When he finished, I smoothed his hair down and patted him on the back.  And I left.

I made it the ten feet to the nearest ladies’ restroom and disintegrated when I got in there.

And that was the first thirty minutes of my morning.