You know how some people love throwing a big bash?
Well, I’m not one of those people.
In fact, the thought of hosting a dinner party is enough to leave me in the foetal position. I excel at being a guest: I bring wine and conversation. But the planning? I leave that to the pros.
Until I got engaged.
Now, it’s not that I didn’t like wedding planning. No, that’s not it. It’s more like I really, really didn’t like wedding planning. I don’t know what I expected when this whole getting-married caper began, but perhaps on some naïve bride-to-be level I imagined my planning skills would flourish and I’d love comparing white, ivory and cream.
Sadly, they didn’t. And I didn’t.
It all started on the night of the proposal. My fiancé Jason and I rang our friends and family to share the news, but were quickly faced with a question I’d grow to despise: “Have you set the date?” I wasn’t sure when we were supposed to have sorted that. (Somewhere between the post-acceptance kiss and dialling the phone? I still wish I knew.) And then, the warnings began trickling in over the next few weeks. Seemingly wise acquaintances crowed in fearful tones, “Better lock in a date otherwise you’ll miss out on a venue. They book out years in advance”.
Cut to the fastest wedding planning you’ve ever seen. Pick a date, any date? November 3, 2012, got it. Like that venue? Yep? Lock it in. Gorgeous dress and on sale? Even better. I began firing questions like: “But which blue? The royal blue or the not-quite-dark-enough-to-be-royal-blue royal blue?” (Learn from my mistakes: they look exactly the same.).