The Final Countdown

There's only two more full days until I get married.

Two days.

I don't even know how that happened or how it's possible that time has gone this quickly.  I swear we just got engaged the other week.

Two days.

One of my friends asked me the other day how many meltdowns I've had.

And honestly?  Not as many as I might have expected, none at all since almost two weeks ago when Mark and I both admitted to each other that we were freaked out that the other person didn't want to get married.

Quite frankly, we don't want to get married.  We don't.  But we do want to be married.  Those of you who have gone through weddings can surely relate, at least in part, and know that there is most definitely a difference between the two.  Getting married is, simply, a pain in the ass, even when you do truly want to be with your future spouse for the rest of your life and all that nonsense.

But the problem is the process.  The problem is that weddings have gotten out of control.  The problem is  that everything costs way too much money for one little portion of one little day.  The problem is that everyone has an opinion about what you should or should do and who should or shouldn't be invited.

(The problem may also be that I'm a ridiculous perfectionist and therefore made my own bouquet and cupcakes, but that's totally besides the point.)

The problem is not with me or Mark, and that is the one thing keeping me going.  Right now I would give almost anything for it to be 11:00 on Saturday and for it all to be almost over, to be on the very brink of being married to the love of my life.

Part of me wondered, during my momentary crisis a couple weeks ago, if I was sure about all this.

I've been down this road before, after all.  It wasn't great.  It was, actually, one of the worst experiences of my life.  And here I was, ten years later, about to do it all over again?  Was I sure, was I really sure, that this was a good idea?  What if I was making the same mistake again?

But I thought about it.  And wasn't scared of being married.  I know, as much as I can know anything, that I want to be with this guy for all of the foreseeable future.  There's never really been anyone else, in spite of all efforts to the contrary.

No, what I was scared of was that Mark didn't want to be with me, that he would change his mind, realize he'd made a huge mistake.  Because, really, I wouldn't blame him.  I'm damaged goods.  I've been divorced.  I still have significant emotional damage and a tendency to stress-meltdowns.  The fact that I don't drink as much means that I cry a lot more instead.  I post selfies every day and have a ridiculous amount of clothes.  And pins.  And books.  And shoes.

Really, I wouldn't blame him if he decided I wasn't the best idea ever.

But that would be awful.

So do I wish we didn't have to go through this whole wedding thing?  Yes.  Do I wish we would have eloped back on Halloween?  Yes.

And do I want to marry him and risk everything all over again, ten years later?

Oh, yes.  Hell yes.