sixty-five days pre-wife

Currently: drinking sparkling water with lime while listening to a ‘Throwback Party’ playlist. It’s not even Friday.

Sixty-five days doesn’t sound like much right now. Not ten weeks. A breeze. I barely remember the events of the past three weeks, they went so quickly. I assume it’ll be a mere blink and suddenly I’ll be packing my suitcase, frantically trying not to forget something vital, like deodorant or my phone. I’m excited to reach that point, mentally touching it with the tips of my fingers as I eagerly wake up each morning knowing I’m just that little bit closer. Another coffee, another day of phone calls, maybe one more coffee while I’m scribbling on another pale pink post-it note. It’s all pulling me nearer.

I can’t wait to be married. And surprisingly, I can’t wait for the wedding. Can’t wait to enter the chapel, to dance in the starlit evening, full on champagne and wedding cake. Can’t wait to wake up the next morning, breathe a sigh of relief, and make myself a cup of tea at the small hotel room kitchenette, knowing that this – all of this; this all-encompassing monster of an event that has successfully engulfed me, pushing aside my plans and priorities with no regard for the past nine months – is over. I thought the honeymoon a little excessive prior to beginning to plan our wedding. We were already having our wedding at a resort. Did we need a holiday as well?
Yes. Yes we need that holiday. I’m indignant that wedding planners don’t get to go on honeymoons too, for every wedding they plan. Planning a wedding is like one of those 6AM bootcamps in winter, where you feel elated and full of anticipation prior to actually reaching the day, but despise the actual process, and then feel physically destroyed by the end of it. Honeymoons are the hot showers, the silent commutes, the moment of rest before you have to continue on in real life.
Of course; it goes without saying that my warmest thoughts revolve around that moment that I look up from my cup of tea, at my husband, who will no doubt be fast asleep in a cocoon of bedsheets, likely nursing a hangover, bless him. Husband. What a precious word, a precious person who would dare tie themselves down to a woman in this way. They’re brave men, husbands, and mine will suit the job well.
It’s true that it is Corey who is holding me together, with his kind words and gentle laughter. His simplicity in the face of complication, his calm demeanour in chaos. He’s the brightly coloured threads that have been stitched through my thin and fraught flesh, holding me steady while I answer another phone call about the event. He is the golden retriever of men, though maybe a little scruffier.

Definitely scruffier.

I’m marrying a golden retriever.

Dreams do come true.


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