As he pulled me backwards down the ramp and on to the street, the taxi driver asked what I was doing there. On a Monday. In the rain. In Glasgow.
‘Wedding make-up trial.’
‘Are you going to be a bridesmaid?’
‘No. I’m the bride.’
‘Thank you. Have a nice day.’
As I made my way up to Dad and Anne’s flat, I thought about how much I live to surprise people. Not really. Maybe a little. Remember this?
When I arrived upstairs, Dad might have been Googling wedding video people. Sarge and I had two must-haves on that front. Unobtrusive cameras and a grammatically-correct website. After three phone calls, and some squealing from me, we found someone. I sent Sarge a link to the website, and his usual ‘Cool!’ was upgraded to ‘Awesome!’ And so, that’s another thing off the to-do list.
At about ten that night, Dad, Anne and two of my bridesmaids were eating pizza and watching me get transformed into Eddie Izzard, um, a bride. The beauty therapist was very patient. And the one-sided conversation went something like this: open, blink, stop, no, open…DO OVER. And did I mention I’m not co-ordinated enough for liquid eye-liner? I’m not. Pencils SAVE. Or something.
As for my hair, I had only two stipulations. 1. My hair and I must fit through any doorway at the same time. b. We must avoid what I call The Bridal (Hair) Hump.
As I slapped myself with make-up remover before getting on the train to go home, I thought my hair and I were safe.
However, I was having doubts about my hair in a way that I’ve never doubted my future husband. And so I showed him my hair. In a way that I’ve never shown him my dress.
‘It makes your head look tall,’ he said. And I understood him completely. The Bridal (Hair) Hump. Number (2) on my list of Things To Be Avoided.
That means I’m back on Pinterest looking for hair inspiration-even-though-I-hate-that-word. Pinterest is also good for dessert porn while I’m actually eating fruit and frozen yogurt. Because that’s what my personal trainer says I should eat. Did I mention I have one of those? I do.
In the midst of hairspray and crunches, I’ve heard back from the florist, too. In my original email to her, I might have said, ‘ My husband-to-be, (Sarge), is severely allergic to all the flowers that have ever grown, and I only like a few of them anyway. I would really like (Sarge) to enjoy our wedding, and not sneeze/wheeze through it. Tearing up is fine, even encouraged. But we must avoid the very loud Sneezes of Doom.’
The Sneezes of Doom are right up there with The Bridal (Hair) Hump. In case anyone is keeping score.
We talked about paper flowers and brooch bouquets. Apparently our wedding will be a little ‘different,’ but she is happy to work with us. I was ecstatic to hear both of those things. From someone who isn’t related to me or Sarge.
That leaves us with only a few more things on the to-do list and five months and one day to go.
For now though, I need to eat grapes and do some laps.
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