My Guy and I are getting married in less than two months. And I’m pretty sure I haven’t turned into Bridezilla – yet.
Tonight, we spent about five minutes trying to figure out why we missed 30 Rock last week. What in the world were we doing that we missed Liz breaking up with Matt Damon? What could possibly be that important?
Oh, right. We were buying wedding bands.
Late. Because eight weeks might not be enough when you have a freakishly small finger and have to have your ring not sized, but custom-made.
Oh well. If it isn’t done in time, the lady promised they’d give us a loaner ring.
And yesterday, when I went to the post office to buy stamps for the invitations?
Well, I figured I’d buy the LOVE stamps. But funny thing – you can’t really buy LOVE stamps on Valentine’s Day – they were sold out. Color me surprised.
Now, I don’t know about your post office, but my post office is staffed entirely by Tired Black Ladies Who Have Had Enough. They are generally intimidating as they look over their glasses at you, like they just know that you’ve got both liquids AND perishables in that box, and don’t even try to pretend otherwise, missy.
But yesterday? TBLWHHE #1 suggested I go for the wedding band stamps in lieu of the LOVE stamps. There was no one else in the post office, so she wasn’t quite as tired and over it as usual.
Wedding ring stamps? Could I be so stereotypical?
Yeah, whatever. They’re stamps. Big deal.
Except … TBLWHHE #1 didn’t have enough stamps – she needed Tired Black Lady Who Has Had Enough #2 to come off break to get more out of the safe, and TBLWHHE #2 wasn’t done with her break yet, thank you.
Now, pretty much everything you read about wedding planning says not to sweat the small stuff. So I tried it yesterday.
“Well, maybe I could go halvsies with the rescue animal stamps.”
TBLWHHE #1 looked at me over her glasses. “Are you kidding me?”
“Umm, well, I like animals …”
At this point, TBLWHHE #1 lost her shit, and called out to TBLWHHE #2. “Girl, are you kidding me? She wants shelter animals on her wedding invitations. Wedding invitations!”
At this point, TBLWHHE #2 had to come off her break early to join in. “What? Are you serious?”
TBLWHHE #1 was serious as a heart attack. “Uh-hmm.”
At this point, I could feel myself turning beet red. But at least I was laughing as TBLWHHE #2 came back from the safe with the wedding ring stamps. “Honey, you put shelter animals on your wedding invites, ain’t nobody gonna open ’em.” Then, she turned to her co-worker. “Shelter animals? On wedding invitations? Woo-wee!”
I thanked the ladies for keeping me on the right track. And then I sat in my car and wondered how a bride could be so inept.
Later, though, I was reminded yet again that I am marrying totally the right man. I regaled My Guy with the tale of the stamps. His reaction?
“They’re fucking stamps! Nobody gives a shit!”
Which I thought was hilarious and grounding and wonderful. Maybe when this is all over, we can start our own wedding planning business and call it Nobody Gives a Shit Weddings. Because as long as you’re hitched, the food doesn’t suck, and the drinks are free? Nobody gives a shit.