Readers, I’ve been keeping a secret from you. Because of my Catholic roots, I’ve felt really guilty about it, so I haven’t been posting very much. Also, I’m really bad at keeping secrets (don’t tell my friends), and I was kind of worried I’d slip and give it away.
B and I are eloping in Vermont!
At a 230-year-old farm in the country!
I didn’t even know buildings in this country could be that old!
And we’re eloping tomorrow!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my fresh country breakfast and marriage license is calling.
In case you’ve been wondering why it’s been all radio-silent over here lately, well, it’s because
THIS WEDDING GAVE ME A DEBILITATING PHYSICAL INJURY.
That’s is not entirely true. I’m being a little dramatic (I know, very uncharacteristic of me).
Here’s the real truth. I have had a debilitating physical injury. It’s called costochondritis. Costochondritis is an inflammation of the tissue that connects the ribs to the sternum. It is excruciatingly painful.
I said excruciatingly painful.
Today’s the first day since last week Thursday that I’ve been able to sit upright and breathe without massive pain.
Here’s my theory about what caused it:
After an extremely stressful, 12-hour day at the office, after several rough nights of combing the interwebs for the perfect wedding shoe and matching (but not too “matchy”) accessories, I decided to take a nice, hot shower. B had just cleaned it—which is my favorite way to take a nice, hot shower. Sadly, I didn’t realize there was a thin film of soap lining the tub, and I wiped out.
I, like, totally wiped out.
Feet out from under me, tailbone slamming into the fiberglass tub, arms askew, big noise that scared the cats. Wiped. Out.
While I don’t remember hitting my ribs on my way down, I do remember being really, really tense before getting in. I probably didn’t hit my ribs (you should have seen how I landed), but, because I was so tense, I probably did the damage on impact anyway.
Now, in my darkest days, when all I could do was lay on my right side and wonder how it was possible that Percocet couldn’t even come close to making a dent in the pain, I said to myself, “Look at you, Katherine. You need to make some changes. You need to calm down. Stop obsessing about wedding shoes! Just go with it! Stop being so tense! Break the cycle!”
Now that I’m feeling better, of course I’m scouring the interwebs obsessively for perfect shoes. These will now be my third pair.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to find amazing shoes with a heel that’s under 3”?
No, you probably don’t.
Because you’re probably not someone who’s on the femme end of the spectrum, who’s 5’11”, and who’s about to marry a handsome butch who barely grazes 5’5”. You probably also didn’t just buy a beautiful, short white wedding dress that demands amazing shoes.
These are Tall, About-to-Get-Married Lesbian Problems. Few adult humans have them.
I’ve spent probably close to 12 hours, if not more, combing every single shoe site out there for the perfect mid-heel sandal. I’ve been late to dinner parties. I’ve neglected the cats. My blogging has been reduced to a trickle. I’m going blind from staring at the computer and clicking yellow “Next Page >” buttons over and over. It’s ugly.
Speaking of ugly, here are the types of things you get when you search for “special occasion” sandals with a “heel height” between 2 and 2 3/4”:
I know I’m a lesbian, but I’m still pretty sure I filtered by “Special Occasion,” Zappos.
Would you believe me if I said these shoes were named “Classy”? I barely believe myself.
Pretty sure these were worn by the grandmother-of-the-bride at a wedding I was at in the 90s.
This pair represents a genre of shoe I see a lot of under “Special Occasion,” regardless of the site. They come from brands with names like “Touch Ups,” “Dyeables,” and “Coloriffics.” Generic wedding shoes that you’re meant to take a box of RIT to. Seems dangerous, looks boring.
…and then I come across shoes like these, which actually seem not so bad, except that they’re designer shoes (Kate Spade, in this example) and cost $500.
Did I end up finding shoes in the end? Yes. Were they taller than 3”? Yes. Did I buy them anyway, then spend another 6 hours looking for something shorter and better, before they even arrived? Yes. Are they better? Remains to be seen.
When I’m done with this whole wedding thing, I’m thinking I might become a shoe consultant for amazons.
This wouldn’t be a wedding blog without an over-thought post about marriage and last names. You know what I mean—those posts that go on forever and deconstruct all the options available (Take your spouse’s last name? Keep your respective names? Hyphenate? Combine? Make one up?), with the author always going with option A in the end.
I’ll spare you a discussion about patriarchal heteronormativity and the significance of changing one’s name in a feminist and queer context.
We have more serious things to talk about here.
Let’s say your initials were KK, and you were about to marry someone whose initials were BK.
Let’s say that both of you really, really like the idea of permanently borrowing each other’s last names. It doesn’t make sense to swap last names, though—it would be kind of weird for me to take B’s last name, and her to take mine, as though we’re swapping families and not merging them.
Hyphenation seems like a great middle-of-the-road compromise, right? Except for the part where my initials end up mirroring those of a really bad far-right extremist hate group.
Is this a terrible idea?
Am I better off going with option A?
Postscript: For the record, I’d, obviously, be avoiding monogrammed bathtowels, golf shirts, totebags, and anything else L. L. Bean has to offer. (Trust me, it won’t be hard.)
Post-postscript: Before posting this, I reviewed the issue with my close friend and fellow queer bride-to-be. Her recommendation was to, yes, hyphenate the names, but start inserting my middle initial in all major print correspondence and such. That would make me KLKK, and my name would look something like this: Kxxxxxxxe L. Kxxxxxs-Kxxxxs. She’s so smart!
Post-post-postscript: The cats have already taken our hyphenated last names, of course.
Wow. Thank god for episodes of Say Yes to the Dress, like the one where the bride is forcing her trillions of horrified bridesmaids to wear fur muffs (“the theme is ‘Winter Wonderland,’ and I, uh, wanted my dress to look like snow! Like, all the different textures and layers…”). I suddenly feel about a billion times better (and more intelligent). More like a lazy Midwest summer breeze than an F4 bride-nado.
And, everyone keeps saying “white muff” over and over.
Guys, this is how the wedding is starting to make me feel. See that nice woman in the foreground, wearing white Keds with her red sweatshirt tucked into her shorts, who somehow has no idea that there’s a massive F4 tornado with my face on it about a half mile behind her? That’s you. Or my mom. Or B. Or the cats.
Hi wedding, can I have my life back? I think about you all the time and it’s making me do things like snap at my mom for innocently confessing that she doesn’t really like the idea of wearing cowboy boots with a wedding dress. It’s also seriously cutting into my quality kitty time because I’m constantly researching things on the Interwebs—venues, dresses, birdcage veils, cakes that looks like honest-to-god, real-live tree stumps—instead of rubbing soft cat-bellies.
I mean, seriously.
B has officially forbade me from speaking to her about wedding plans until further notice.
That’s because I pretty much only talk to her about wedding plans (and whether she’s cleaned the cat litter) these days.
I feel like my left arm has been cut off.