I slept heavily last night and, for the second night in a row, dreamed that Greg and I were fighting. We’ve actually never fought. Only once or twice have we even exchanged harsh words, and that was under extreme duress (re: moving), so these dreams have been unsettling.
It’s just after 8AM on Tuesday morning. There are only sips left in my coffee cup, a length to-do list on my left and other scattered notebooks and papers across the dining room table. Greg and I have been taking on more freelance writing work than ever these days and we have a big deadline for the end of the month that seems almost laughable this week as we try to plan our wedding. Somehow though, it’s all getting done.
Overall, I’m feeling quite calm about the act of getting married. I feel good about my vows and about all the effort I’ve put into the ceremony and the other meaningful aspects of the experience. I wonder what it will be like to be married. What it will be like to see a ring on Greg’s finger, to call him my husband, to be referred to occasionally as Mrs. Boose. Wow.
Only two more days here in Chicago to get everything done. I made a program for the ceremony yesterday and we both found gifts for our attendants and families. I’m picking up my dress from the alteration shop today , getting a pedicure, and tonight some of my girlfriends are throwing me a little bridal get-together which I’m excited about. Every day when I come home there is another Crate & Barrel box on the front stoop and now they’re all piled up in the living room by the fireplace. It feels weird to receive all these gifts and we’re definitely not going to open them until we’re married.
I still have moments in which I wish that everyone I know was going to be there on Saturday. But my gosh, I can’t even imagine how stressful that would be — this small ceremony is more than enough to think about. And the people that will be there are ever so important to us.
My half-brother Mike is coming, and made plans without hesitation, which I think is nice. He is my father’s first child — born in 1946 when my father was in prison camp in Germany during WWII. Mike is more than half my age, older than Greg’s parents, I believe. He looks very much like my father and carries many of the same mannerisms. Mike has always looked out for me and taken special care to check in on me in the last few years. He’s thrilled that I’m getting married and heartily approves of Greg.
When my father died I was the primary beneficiary of his estate and it was up to me to clean out and sell his condominium. I was twenty-five and quite alone in California. A couple of weeks after my father died I moved out of his condo and into an apartment in Venice Beach,where I lived for the last four years. Everyday for the first couple of months after he was gone I drove the 45 minutes to my father’s quiet, darkened condo with the intention of beginning to go through his things. And every time I walked in the door I sank to my knees and began to sob, completely unable to bring myself to fulfill the task of sorting through and getting rid of all of his things.
It went on like this for weeks. Even now just the thought of that condo in the weeks after he was gone, makes me want to crawl under the dining room table on which I’m writing and curl into a ball.
Finally, I called my half-brother Mike and I told him what had been going on. He flew out the next weekend and in just a few days the two of us went through the entire condo together, packaging up and getting rid of everything that we didn’t want. We even sold the condo that weekend. I’ll always be forever grateful to him for that weekend.
I’ve asked him to walk me down the aisle.