Living for Disco

I haven’t really been stressed about the wedding plans before now, but just in the last few days I’ve been finding myself having nocturnal nightmares about Gordon turning into a hideous ex boyfriend of mine, or only having work shoes to wear, and waking nightmares about forgetting some crucial thing which will result everyone having a miserable time, or cost us an extra x-thousand pounds.

This morning I’m feeling particularly tense and tearful, so I decided to google wedding stress. I don’t know why. No other wedding advice I’ve solicited from the internet has been remotely useful. It’s all about fascinators and wedding favours. What is it with wedding favours? Surely the idea is for people to give YOU presents? And I’m buggered if I’m paying 25 quid a head for a small box full of sugared almonds.

Anyway, the advice about wedding stress is pretty much the same. It falls into two categories:
1. Advice for brides with pushy parents (Say NO! Learn BOUNDARIES! You don’t HAVE to marry at Papa’s golf club – glory be!)
2. Advice for brides whose future spouses are not supportive of the planning.

Neither of these affects me. My mother, I suspect, is quite enjoying the fact that she doesn’t have to plan anything, as Gordon and I are fairly sure of what we want. She merely absorbs the updates with interest (and the occasional expression of alarm if it sounds expensive), and tries to work out what she’s going to wear.

Gordon’s mother is even less involved. We’re not even sure at the moment if she’s even coming. She didn’t react well to the fact that we put ‘karaoke’ on the invitation, and seems to think that we will be married in the company of a bunch of drunken lager louts in the middle of a rain-soaked, shit-spattered field, while cows chew desultorily at the hem of the guests’ best dresses.

So, not the traditional family stress for me. As for Gordon, he is as invested in the planning as I am, thank the lord.

No, I need to work out how to cope with monosyllabic photographers, venue proprietors who fail to make any helpful suggestions for buffet menus, cake bakers who seem incapable of baking reasonably sized cup cakes with paper cases that stay on, and a bill that is rising out of the murky depths of our debt like a cash-gobbling kraken.

It doesn’t help that I’m on a detox diet this week. As far as I can work out, we are allowed to eat rice cakes and drink water. Actually, it’s not that bad, but I’m hoping to lose a bit of weight. I have put on a stone since I tried the dress on, and I don’t want the evil bride-shop witch to have any excuse whatsoever to make further belittling comments when I go for the fitting.

Still, I hate dieting. I’ve never had to do it before. Usually by 9am I’m craving chocolate croissants with butter on, and a slice of toast. I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol (horrors!), eat wheat, oats, dairy, or anything that’s been cooked for more than 5 minutes. Apparently, according to the wedding stress advice, healthy eating really can help. To be honest, it’s making me tired, flatulent and inclined to shove dates attractively into my mouth every time I feel a blood-sugar dip coming on, which is every ten minutes.

It’s torture. TORTURE.

Roll on Friday. On Friday, I can roll out my traditional stress busting method – a big, fuck off glass of white wine, and good company.

It can’t come too soon.