On the typical night I crawl into bed around 11:30 and I’m out like a light within 10 minutes. Throw a DVD in and I’m snoozing faster than Bill Murray after a glass of warm milk. But lately I’m finding that I don’t even consider heading to bed until 1 a.m. and once tucked in, I stare at the ceiling for more than an hour. Why? Not because I’m fretting over whether we still have diplomatic options to hasten our exit from Iraq or if there are more troubling ramifications pending from the high-risk mortgage market collapse. No, I’m lying there pondering whether it would be better to put eight people at a table, or 10. And if we do have 10 at a table, should we forego the more elegant arm chairs in favor of the armless ones, to give people more space?
It turns out I’m not the only insomniac about the wedding. And if you’re thinking I’m referring to my fiancé you would be, oh, how do I put this delicately? Hilariously misguided. No, one of my dear friends confesses that she’s been tossing and turning across town at night, debating whether Coquilles St. Jacques makes more sense for our reception than lamb chops with demi-glace.
Perhaps I should comfort myself with the knowledge that I can stay awake pondering wedding frippery because a mile down the road (and across the street from where we’ll be celebrating) our president is pondering how best to handle that other scary, significant stuff.
…And with that, Bridal Bird added another two hours to her sleeplessness.