This, despite the fact that I hated shopping for clothes, and even more, I hated shopping for clothes with my mother. I decided to take the marital bull by the horns (animals feature prominently in my wedding analogies) and strike preemptively: I called up my mother and asked her to come to New York to help me try on dresses for the big day. In fact, the phrase “my own wedding” felt as awkward and unnatural as the word “fiancé.” Hello, wedding-industrial complex. The biggest problem, I quickly realized, was that I had spent nearly 30 years inoculating myself against anything I considered cheesy or “Cinderella”-y: I hated white gowns and glass slippers so much that I had never considered what I might wear at my own wedding.
I spent the next month looking at rustic Pinterest boards involving mason-jar bouquets and Etsy dresses. So while he had the foresight to protect himself against the immolation of goodwill, I was swept up by it. My fiancééééé (nope, still don’t have it) and I aren’t exactly Type-A personalities, but we’re both the type of people who like to consider ourselves the Type-A in the relationship in order to stave off any feelings of inadequacy.
MENACE TO SOCIETY 1 HOW TO
Jesus, were we supposed to have a date set? I was still trying to figure out how to say the word “fiancé” without sounding like a jerk. But upon arriving home, I saw how quickly the initial engagement giddiness could turn into engagement panic. At the time, I didn’t see what the big deal was. At the time, I thought he was being a romantic, but he later claimed that he wanted the “engagement trip” to shield us from the fallout of announcing the news to the entire world via Facebook.
In July, my boyfriend of three years proposed to me in Brooklyn and then whisked us both away to a vacation in the Caribbean.
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