Being Me

We have a wedding to attend this weekend. The ceremony and the reception are both outdoors and it’s BYO everything, and pick your own spot in the grassy field by the river.

I haven’t stopped worrying since we RSVP’d.

Used to be all I had to worry about was being fat and finding the right dress, which happen to be pretty much the same problem.

I have the dress problem solved. A couple of date nights ago I was wearing my new boho short red dress and my husband said, “That could be your wedding dress,” which I took to mean, since it’s a wedding for one of his coworkers, that he wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring me along in that dress. The invitation said casual or dressy casual, so it works. Red dress, check!

I’m still working on the fat part as I do everyday of my life forever. I am, in fact, riding my exercise bike as we speak, or rather I speak, and you bless me with the gift of listening. (Pant, pant)

I ordered some under armor to help with the fat part. (Desperate times call for desperate measures) This bad boy has stays and eyelet hooks, a zipper, and straps. Shoulder to thigh slip-free smoother.

You can only squish things so much, and if I have to run from a shooter, which is another thing I’m worried about, definitely nothing is going to be jiggling, but it’s going to be eighty-four degrees and I am a woman who currently has two fans on high speed aimed at her in the air conditioned house.

I’ll have to bring my clip on fan. Make sure it’s fully charged. Remember the charger. Bring something else to wear in case I can’t stand it.

There’s a seventy percent chance of rain. I’ll have to bring the umbrellas. A couple of towels in case our seats or ourselves get wet. My curly hair does not like the rain so much. I should bring my curling iron and the inverter so I can go to the car and repair it if I need to. I’ll have to remember to put it up. Wait, can I even get to the car? I think the invite said there is transportation from the parking lot.

I’m not doing that if I can help it. You know why. (COVID, monkey pox, crazies) I will know exactly three people at this event including my husband. I’m not getting in any small spaces with anyone I don’t know, sitting on seats anyone else sat on. We’ll find a parking spot. Take the little car, it fits anywhere.

Bug spray, chairs, maybe a six pack. A sweater for when the sun goes down. Water. SNACKS. (underline, underline)

It’s two hours away, so we could be late, we could be early, we could be broken down on the side of the road.

My dress will get wrinkly. Maybe I could wait and put it on when we’re almost there but probably not in the little car and definitely not the undergarments, they require some moves I’d rather not disclose. I could cause an accident for gods sake.

I’m going to wear flip flops, they match my dress and they’re good ones with enough support for all day while managing not to look like old lady shoes.

But then, flip flops can be dangerous in the rain, or when you have to run from an active shooter or if you have to walk two miles from the parking lot to the river carrying your chair and cooler and bug spray and umbrellas and water and snacks and nearly passing out because of the corset shaped strangulation device you’re wearing.

I should remember to bring a sun hat, and sunscreen. Hand sanitizer. Sunglasses. Tennis shoes.

And then there’s Aunt Flo. (Look away if you’re squeamish) She’s a real crack pot lately. Came to stay for three weeks the last time. I thought I was dying but somehow, miraculously, I survived.

And now we wait. Who knows what happens next but it’ll be four weeks on the day of the wedding and you know Aunt Flo, she has a sick sense of humor.

Outhouses, yay. (Worry you’ll drop your purse or it’s contents down the hole, worry you’ll sit on pee, worry the lock won’t work or will work and then won’t open, trapping you forever or until you yell enough that someone comes to save you)

Remember to pack the feminine products. And an extra dress. Two extra. One for the rain, one for various other catastrophes. Ibuprofen. Flashlights.

I sure hope I can leave all this stuff in the car. What if I can’t? I’ll need a very large bag.

Why is everything so hard?

At least only two people might hug me and one of them is my husband.

Wait, nobody better hug me. It’s going to be hot, or rainy or buggy or COVID-y plus what if they can tell I have a strangulation device on? No hugs!

Were things always this hard?


Maybe it’ll be fun. It’s been a while. Wouldn’t mind a spin around a grassy dance floor (spaced safely apart from anyone) with the love of my life.

I hope they did a sweep for poison ivy.

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