I have wedding shower the second this evening, followed by snuggling with Beloved in his well-chaperoned living room, and then the long, groggy drive home to my own chaste boudoir, where visions of something more rowdy than sugarplums are likely to clutter my dreams.
We are eight days out, and the hormones are spiking, but thus far still no Bridezilla episodes.
There is nothing on my calendar for tomorrow. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I do plan on trucking over to the optical shop and having them put new pads on my new specs, because the factory-issue ones are digging to China on the left side of my nose, and I’d like for everything to heal up before the big day.
Other than that, I foresee a little cooking, a lot of packing, and oh please, more knitting than I have seen since Tuesday night.
My checkbook is balanced. Me? not so much. My back is tight, my hip is aching, the twinge in my knee has returned, and I think it is pure and simple repression, which will continue unabated until shortly after we arrive at the cabin next weekend.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!