Lyrical Laughs

Saturday, May 24, 2014

A year - hardly enough time to panic

I woke up with a start this morning realizing I had a deadline fast approaching. Was it my blog that I really do try to post every Saturday? The family article I’ve been writing for a local newspaper that has to be submitted by Tuesday morning? My many submissions in half-prepared stages for various publications?

Nope. It was May 23, 2015.

Exactly one year from today our first-born child, our sweet, beautiful daughter and the love of her life (The Boy, as you may recall) will be getting married. The hall is reserved, the dress is chosen, the guest list is basically complete, and the Save-The-Dates are in the process of being designed by the groom. It’s all falling nicely into place. So as I sip my coffee at the crack of Doesn’t-My-Brain-Know-It’s-Saturday, the only thing I can think about is:


I am ignoring your attempts to throw in my face that it’s not my wedding. Yeah, yeah – I get that. It’s not that I plan to make my daughter or her fiancĂ© insane (much). I’m not one of those Mother-of-the-Bride (appropriately nicknamed MOB) types who pushes her opinion about what type of music to have (as long as it includes the Alley Cat and the Chicken Dance), or what kind of cake to choose (as long as there is red velvet involved – or cupcakes – ooh ooh – red velvet cupcakes!) or even who to invite (as long as they’ve reviewed my list which includes specific rules about who should not be seated together).

This is about the art of panicking.

For instance, I went to bed at 11:30 last night after getting on a roll with a Modern Family marathon (still kicking myself for missing Mitchell and Cameron’s wedding). You would think I could sleep in a bit, but NO – I rolled over at 5:45 a.m., and my mind went into full throttle wedding mode. I know, I know – Not My Wedding. You already pointed that out.

My panic will mostly be internal. Actually… that’s a lie. If there is something on my mind the person who has been crazy enough to deal with me for the past 30 years will definitely know it.  If he’s smart he won’t try to offer any solutions – he will merely stand back and be aware that the occasional calm in between is only the eye of the storm. His job is to show up at the right place at the right time, debit card in hand.

I have so far refrained from making a list of what has to get done, and I’m also forcing myself to conjure up every badly behaving MOB moment I can recall from movies and television. Granted, one episode of Say Yes to the Dress can cover that. Thankfully, Daughter #1 already has the dress and I got to be there for that very special moment. Oh, wait – I have to add fittings to the list I’m not making.

And then there is the whole MOB outfit. I am currently working my way out of tent-fitting status so I can find something within the Elegance-without-Bulges category of dresses. And the shoes – I’m completely freaking out about the shoes. I don’t do heels. Unlike those adorable ads from childhood for a line of Playskool toys (“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down”), I do fall down if my shoes have even a hint of a heel – and it is not pretty. Fortunately, the wedding is during Memorial Day Weekend next year, so classy sandals are completely acceptable. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Is there really a ton to do in the next year? Oh yes, without a doubt. Other than contributing that sense of panic to the mix I’m not sure what my part will be. I can only hope that genetics is on my side and my daughter will call me at least once in panic mode – not so that I can fix it – just so I can accompany her on that inevitable detour through Hysteria Hill and Angst Avenue on her way to The Happiest Day of Her Life.

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