Memoir
1. Nothing will go to plan.
Fiancé unzips a black bag and pulls out a three-piece suit.
‘This is a disaster. I’ll be mistaken for a character from Avatar.’
‘Was that the colour you chose in the catalogue?’ I ask.
‘No. The swatch was dark blue. Not smurf blue.’
Thankfully the bespoke suit company are understanding, offering to make a new one for free. This time he chooses the same colour as his groomsmen (dark navy) to prevent any pop culture reference points. He also uses the opportunity to switch to a more refined tuxedo style, adding a black satin lapel.
‘It’s the one day of your life you can, and should, go for the tux,’ he says, tapping the mouse to open yet another browser tab for wedding planning.
2. Your mental agility will reach its limits (AKA not another form)
The venue asks us to complete a form with our requirements, including items we hadn’t considered up to this point.
1. Will you bring your own cake knife?
2. What will you do with the flowers afterwards?
3. How many crew meals are required?
4. How many car spaces do you need?
5. What time will the cake be arriving?
6. Who will take the leftover cake home afterwards?
I never thought I’d be envisaging a wedding cake’s journey from kitchen to venue to guest’s mouth, but here we are.
3. He won’t know who you are when you walk down the aisle
I arrive at the vintage make-up artist’s apartment at 10am for my pre-wedding trial. She’s so cool with her shelves of Marvel memorabilia, white cat-eyed glasses and strawberry red hair. A dishevelled man is lying on the couch streaming a show about video games and muscle workouts.
I’m nervous as she glues false lashes to my eye sockets. It feels like I have bat wings on my eyelids. She may have overdone the glue on my left eye because I’m unable to open it.
When I get home, Fiancé has a minor heart attack because I never wear make-up. The combination of matte foundation, winged eyeliner and red lipstick has left me unrecognisable, even to myself.
4. You risk being held responsible for interpersonal conflict
The seating plan for our wedding reception is a lot easier thanks to a cool technique I found on Pinterest. I draw circles on a piece of paper to represent each table, then write the guests’ names on sticky notes to move around to different tables. As a recovering people-pleaser, I focus on how to make 100 people happy by visualising the user experience of each person in their allocated seat.
What have I become?
I consider all possible political and social implications. Who should I place next to the uncle with slightly inflammatory views? Is it a bad idea to seat two rebellious, atheist youths next to a devout Christian family? Would a 60-year-old party animal pull her hair out trying to converse with a table of studious pre-teens, compelling her to harass the DJ with unsolicited requests to play George Michael? Will the police be called if I seat a quiet octogenarian great-uncle who makes his own wine next to a rowdy extrovert who’ll talk his way through a bar tab of beer?
I’m really testing the stickiness of post-it notes with this conundrum.
5. You have stand in front of a crowd of people
To distract from the impending doom of being the centre of attention for half a day, we decide to get creative by writing our own vows. With one caveat: a conscious choice not to include inane domestic pledges like ‘I promise to vacuum the house once a week’.
If we did, Fiancé’s would be:
I’ll make you coffee every morning to stop you helplessly pawing at the machine like a bear roughing up a fish for consumption.
I’d write:
I vow not to blink an eye if you consume a waffle the size of the dining room table topped with berries, maple syrup, peanuts, and multiple scoops of ice-cream.
6. More forms
It’s been a long day, but we put in another hour of another prized weekend completing the photographer’s form.
1. How long would we like our coverage?
2. What combinations of family photos would we like?
3. Would we like prints as well, or only digital copies?
I rip out my phone, press the search bar and type: Where to buy a stress ball in my area.
‘This form has more pages than the Communist Manifesto,’ says Fiancé.
‘I know, this is longer than the census. Oh god, the photographer needs to know how much time we have between the ceremony and reception and we then need to tell the car hire company so they can drive us to the location. Wait, what location did we decide on?’
‘As long as he doesn’t take a photo that makes me look like a top-tier sumo wrestler, I really don’t care.’
7. The shopping mall will be your new place of residence
We need to find dresses for the junior bridesmaids, my super-cute cousins aged eleven and twelve. Mum and I take them shopping three weeks before the wedding.
Dress shopping is not the priority, it seems. First stop: Westfield food court, where Mum spoils her nieces with chicken nuggets, donuts, ice cream, and popcorn. The girls are quick to capitalise with very specific food requests.
‘I want the twisty bottle drink from KFC.’
‘I want the purple grape slushie from McDonalds.’
Two hours later, we start shopping. The first dress we find is perfect: kimono-inspired with gold stitching and pink knee-length skirt. But there’s only one left. And the shop assistant is more concerned about hugging a young gentleman in a black hoodie who visits her regularly behind the counter than serving us.
It’s moments like these I’m grateful to have a Lebanese mum. She’s on to securing the second dress, summoning the survival instincts of her civil war-escaping migrant ancestors.
‘Can you call one of your other stores to check if the dress is available there?’
The shop assistant sighs, rolling her eyes as she types search terms into her computer.
Success: only one more dress in stock! It has some pulled threads and a torn stitch around the neck, though Mum will be onto the alterations faster than her ability to feed a family member.
8. Did I mention nothing will go to plan?
One week before the wedding, I pull the delicate lace gown over my head in the change room to check for any final alterations.
Ah, my dress. A rare, non-negotiable anchor throughout this ridiculous process. Like a trusted grandmother holding my hand as a child. Circa 1955, in perfect condition, with cap-sleeves and tight lace bodice cascading to an ankle-skimming tulle skirt. My maid of honour cried when she saw it on me. Mum said her heart was racing. The sweet sparkling wine supplied by the dress shop probably contributed to both reactions.
I take my shoes out of the box to see how the full ensemble looks.
‘Oh no. They’re too white,’ says the boutique owner.
‘What?’
‘Your shoes are white-white. Your dress is ivory-white’.
The difference in shades is obvious as I look in the mirror. I bought the shoes three months ago, so the $300 won’t be covered by the returns policy. I could have bought a small tropical island instead of planning this wedding.
At least I can count on my dress.
‘The dress doesn’t fit.’
‘What?’ My chest tightens in the corset. I can’t breathe.
‘You’ve lost weight. Don’t worry, it’s common for brides.’
Don’t worry? How did I lose weight? Now I need to pile on the pounds, eat like an American college footballer. I plan a week of burgers and fries. Note to self: buy waffle makings to eat with Fiancé on the way home.
I’m instructed not to do this. For $150, the shop can turn around an express dress alteration. A huge relief, as much as I preferred my previous idea.
‘Don’t forget your white rose hair pin. That comes to $200 all up.’
I tap my keycard, smiling: at love, at joining families, at this unknown and uncertain precipice I’ll never stand on again.
Danielle Catherine 