There Is No Try

M offered me Nyquil last night so I could sleep, and tonight I've made precautions of my own: a hot shower, various attempts to combat my hairy ancestry, and the generous scents of honeysuckle and patchouli, in the spirit of Cassandra, moisturizing me. I am hoping to avoid worrying the corners of my pillow with everything that yet needs doing, my groans of frustration and midnight dashes to the computer to write an email or three, to add or check something off of this or that list, stifled or resisted alltogether. There is a cat and a man sleeping in this bed as well as me, after all; shouldn't we all get to have sweet dreams of the wedding being over?

Besides, festivities begin tomorrow and we'll have house guests, too, and I know there's no sense worrying about what's going to happen no matter what I do or do not do.

Maybe that's just the lotion talking.

Affirmative

I said no to myself about many things yesterday, browsing the aisles of two separate stores in search of tablecloths that were neither a) vinyl b) tacky or c) overpriced, given they'll only get one good use, in my reckoning. I filled my baskets - twice - with things I returned to the shelves at the end of my visit. It was rather difficult to say goodbye to a skeletal bride and groom, out of everything, but I did.

So tonight, after having devoted a day to baking some twenty dozen cookies and sampling only a few before committing them to the freezer for the next week, I am going to say yes to pizza and a night of gaming, or yes to pizza and a period film. Perhaps both, but certainly pizza.

M is out being a bachelor, and I'm in playing at spinster.

My Head is Spinning on my Shoulders

I feel like I am holding my breath waiting for this wedding to happen. It is a strange comfort to me that whatever I should do or not do, the day will come and go like every other. It doesn't keep me, of course, from trying to do everything, but I can see at least the futility of my sleeplessness and loss of appetite. Two pounds seems paltry over the course of the month, but given the usual unflinchingly solid state of my body, I cannot help but be surprised.

M put his arms around me today as I carelessly unbuttoned his shirt once he was home from work. Jacuzzis were mentioned, and for a moment we were a week and three days ahead of ourselves, instead of a week and two.

Despite everything that remains to be done, which seems just enough to keep me busy, waiting will be the most trying task.

Laundry Day

The laundromat is like another planet.

I remember running up and down the scummy tile as a child before we had a washer and dryer at home, crawling in and out of the baskets even though I knew I wasn't allowed, fancying the miniature detergents for play instead of purpose. Whatever familiarity I had then is lost now. Even in college I never washed more than a few pairs of jeans in the sterile dormitory basement, the sister place of this suburban wash.

I brought a fistful of coins for no reason, and had to be shown how to use the machine. She was so quick I'm not at all sure it was a lesson; I think she was just doing it for me. It's like I've never laundered anything in my life, sitting here nursing a panic that I should've gone with cold water instead of hot, that white and off-white will find a way to compromise each other.

But I watch our duvet, our down comforter, and our new sheets spin in the foam, and there's something about it that feels a little bit like my mother, for all I haven't kids to beg to sit down or a smoking habit to indulge between loads.

But there, I've seen a scrap of pure white tumbling, and I'm sure I haven't screwed up.

Double Gang

Seated by the fire in a tissue weight turtle neck. The weather is fine enough for both, and storytelling, too. The best ones have more than one teller, our interruptions building each after the other, gestures cast in shadow against patio chairs and pavement. The hiss of old logs are a whispering chorus, the chatter of a restless audience. They weren't there and had to be, I guess.

We bought wine glasses today to toast with at the wedding, and after. It seems like we keep bringing permanent things into the house, though we've lived here now, together, for years. Even white plastic light switch covers seem an improvement, a cozy touch compared with the standards stained with age. On our grocery list M scratched things to buy when we come back from the honeymoon. Perhaps my excitement over light fixtures and ceramic tile is indicative of how old and idle I'm getting.

Though the champagne flutes weren't on sale and we wouldn't pay full price. Maybe we aren't so gentile after all.

Vanity

Like Susan Pevensie, I am regretting being privy to thoughts better left alone. Unlike Susan, it is what I am thinking, and not others, that I wish unthought. Aren't we a nasty character, human woman?

Kicking Rocks

At fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, I wrote like I was sprinting, feverish, trying to purge myself of something. The best part in remembering - if not necessarily in reading the jumbled guts of it, I don't use the word purge without reason - was that I never needed to explain myself. I could skip to writing the good parts, and write them as bloated as I liked. My heroes were grossly indulgent, my heroines conflicted but ultimately without flaw or rival. I didn't need exposition, I had nothing to prove and no one to please but myself and my best friend, who wrote with me. Though we considered ourselves quite different from ever other girl we knew, I know now we weren't alone. Everyone we met in college and loved and became friends with played the same games. We were all each others' trusted confidants on and off the page.

If anything, I'm beginning to think a firm understanding and gross over-usage of cliche is a solid foundation for avoiding it in the future. At least I was mostly spared in Introduction to Creative Writing, though I'm in no hurry to return to those stories, either.

She's Crafty

My original vision for this blog was, if not necessarily a showcase, a process piece for my craft undertakings. I suppose I've reached a stage in public writing where I feel everything should be for something, as opposed to vain little exercises in daily drivel. And though I haven't really used it for that purpose, I'm a sharer by nature, and nothing is so pleasing as having something enjoyed. Which is probably why I found the creative writing workshop a little like a Roman circus.

I love what is handmade. I want to try everything and do, want to skim tutorials so I can get down to it with only enough understanding of the process to fuck up in a small - but eternally noticeable - way. I tell myself I don't have time to work out at the gym/fold laundry/call my mother/get to bed on time because I have projects.

Occasionally, I finish one.

Opalescent

When he buys you a gift, your surprise and pleasure at the act are far better than the gift itself.

Avowing

In one month I will be married. My new means of composing my Mrs. Bennet-esque nerves involve the following considerations.

I will look beautiful on my wedding day, but it will be neither the only nor the last day that I will.

No one will remember - hopefully - my tears over fluorescent lighting, breaches of etiquette, unexpected blemishes, or compromised music selections when I cry at the altar. I will take a hand I have known so well and that has known me, but it will be my husband's hand, and I will be his wife.

This is a day I will share, less than an hour for every month that I have prepared, with my friends and my family. All of the rest of my hours, the months and years of my life, will be spent building something far bigger and more special than a wedding day: my marriage.

I will be neither fearful nor undone by the unexpected, be it cake frosting, trailing hems, or quarrelsome relations, because I never expected love, and it has been the greatest influence of my life.