My fiancé and I were g-chatting about the wedding last week and we got onto the subject of cookie bags.
My sister wants to make some sort of personalized treat that we can serve at the end of the night, sort of like an edible favor. I sent Awesome some links to some different treat bags I was considering and asked for his opinion, to which he replied, “Babe. You need to just pull the trigger on some of this stuff. Like bags for the cookies? They could be Ziploc bags for all I care.”
Hence the issue with asking your male partner to help you plan your wedding. Weddings are all about the details, and some men just don’t get that. It’s easy to choose the big stuff – food, venue, DJ. But when it comes to planning the stuff that makes your wedding unique and different from all the others out there, they are clueless.
We are planning to buy and supply our own alcohol – beer and wine, with a signature drink. One night while watching House of Cards (our new obsession) I was inwardly fretting about how we were going to serve the alcohol. I know, how can I be thinking about the wedding while watching a well-written, fantastically-acted Netflix drama starring Kevin Spacey?
Well here’s the God’s honest truth … I think about the wedding 100 percent of the time I am fully conscious. At work half my brain is thinking about whatever task I am accomplishing while the other half is pondering what color tablecloths would look best with our centerpieces.
Anyway, I’m thinking about alcohol distribution and Awesome can tell I’m not as into the show as I normally am, because I’m not reacting to what’s happening on screen, so he asks what is wrong and I tell him. He fires up my tablet and finds some galvanized tin buckets on Home Depot’s website, and says “There. We will serve the beers in these things. Done!”
As I slowly realized he was trying to be helpful, it also dawned on me that he had literally no idea what he was getting himself into when he gave me this “solution.”
I turned to him, paused House of Cards, and let loose what I was really thinking.
“Sure, we could use those. But tell me, where are we going to get the ice? Who is going to pick it up? How much ice do we need for both drink refreshment and temperature regulation? When the ice melts and the beers get warm who is going to refill the ice? Who is going to refill the beers when they are gone? Where are we going to put the tins? How many are we going to buy? Are we also using the tins for sodas and water? Is the price in the budget?” and on and on until Awesome looked like he wanted a hole in the Earth to open up and swallow him just so he didn’t have to hear the true depth of my insanity anymore.
I stopped because it looked like he was about to barf, but then I explained to him that every decision leads to like, 15 more decisions. If we were planning one of our backyard summer cookouts I wouldn’t be as crazy about it because who cares who is going to refill the beers? Everyone will. But at a wedding, we are supposed to be serving our guests, and we are not going to have time to stop and solve problems in the middle of getting ready or in the middle of the reception when we are supposed to be thanking all the guests, and oh yeah, HAVING FUN.
I don’t want Awesome to be one of those grooms who says the bride made all the decisions. I want him to be involved, not because I need his help, which I definitely do, but because it’s his day too and I want him to be a part of everything.
But while he does want to be a part of the big decisions, he doesn’t care about the little stuff, and he also wants me to not be insane for the next six months.
So for now, I will keep most of my insanity to myself, and let him deal with the big stuff while I worry about the details.
After all, I want him to WANT to marry me when the big day comes.
Emily Campbell is a perpetually single, 20-something girl-around-town who loves Shakespeare, old movies, Natty Boh, and of course, long walks on the beach. A sales manager by day and freelance writer by night, she was recently forced into a life of involuntary celibacy when her last relationship fizzled out over a text message. She’s tired of settling for second – or tenth – best, and she’s ready to find Mr. Right. Or, Mr. Nearly Right. No one’s perfect…which she has learned the hard (but hilarious) way.