Almost Done

Putting together a seating chart bears an unpleasant resemblance to a bastard cross between jenga and New Math as set forth by Tom Lehrer.

We need tables of 10, though we can go as high as 12 or as low as 8, provided the average stays at 10 and our total table number stays at 11. Technically, this means we need to have 10.3 people at each table. So far I have managed to avoid carving guests, but it may be necessary before the situation is resolved.

Then comes the balancing act of determining who sits where. My mother has precisely 2.3 tables worth of family. My sweetie's family occupies a grand total of 1/3 of a table. My coworkers as a group fall one person over the maximum, leaving me with the choice of either sticking one coworker into the vast sea of weirdness that is my friends, or stuffing together two bizarre Frankensteinian hybrid tables of half-coworker, half-kin. Or I can replace the centerpieces with the small children of friends and relations, and free up another handful of seats.

I could fit all of my aunts at one table, but then none of the cousins would be able to sit there. I can't fit the cousins all together, but how do I figure which of them get to sit in the family corner and which are assigned to the Strange People From Strange Circumstances zone? And if I put the family by the DJ to act as noise control, then I can't fit the SCA ghetto near the dance floor.

It's like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces bleed when you put them in the wrong place. If I weren't such an obsessive-compulsive planning freak, I'd hate it. As it is, I'm almost ashamed to admit that I'm having fun. If it's complicated, that means it's important and I'm accomplishing something, right?

Thunk

I had an epiphany this morning. Usually washing my face doesn't lead to great cosmic revelations, but I guess the combination of midmorning sun, Ivory soap, and a half hour of hysterics can sometimes allow one to see things that seem obvious in retrospect, but were hidden until then.

I've spent the past year burying myself in the details of this wedding, trying to make sure everything is perfect. I know that my life, marriage, and future social life don't revolve around the propriety of place cards and program baskets and recessional music, but.... it seemed like the thing to do. It seemed important, somehow. And it kept me busy while I teetered precariously on the border of anxiety, depression, and misery without knowing why. After all, my place cards were alphabetized and the ink on the invites matches the bridesmaid's shoes, so I have nothing to be upset about, right?

For as long as I can remember, I've known with the fiery confidence of my personal stubborn soul that I was never going to get married. I can remember being in second grade and being told that I was going to die old, ugly, alone, and unloved, because noone would ever want a girl like me. When I was old enough to start dating, and boys asked me out, I was constantly reminded that they might be willing to sleep with me, but never to marry me or even get serious about me.

There are women men screw around with, and women men marry, and I knew without question which one I was. I never even imagined getting married, or daydreamed about it. I kept my imagination on more believable things - in my daydreams I had a silver tiger and a baby dragon, I was an orphan raised by magical alien cats and sent back to earth to fight my arch-nemesis, I had a castle with a ballroom where the floor was a mosaic of gemstones, but nothing as unrealistic or impossible as marriage crossed my mind.

All my life, my self-identity has resolved around a very few things. I'm female, I'm small, I'm a nerd, my calling is veterinary medicine, and I'm never going to get married. Except now one of those isn't true anymore. And I've been doing my best not to think about this, because it's scary and intimidating and tied up with a whole bunch of other dark crap in my mind.

I don't fit my self definition anymore. I'm not me anymore, and now I don't know who I am, or who 'me' is, or what happened to the me that used to be. I know that my life isn't ending and the world isn't changing, and I'll still be myself, but that self isn't the person I thought it was. I have to redefine everything that I am. And.... if that part of my self-definition was wrong, maybe the rest isn't as concrete as I thought it was. It's even harder to wrap my mind around than any other form of self-exploring, too, because the entire premise was set down by someone who left a lot of other negative baggage in my mind. So now it's almost as if he were back with me, staring over my shoulder and telling me I'm wrong, and bringing up everything else bad he ever made me believe. And at the same time, if he was wrong about that, what else was he wrong about, too? Maybe everything I ever thought about myself wasn't real.

And while it's wonderful and liberating and marvelous, it's terrifying and nauseating and overwhelming at the same time. My preconceptions may not be flattering, but they're safe and they've become comfortable after twentymumble years of carrying them around. Besides, I have enough stubborn pride that I hate being wrong, and it takes more courage than I feel like I have right now to stand up and admit that I've been living under mistakes and false incompetence, and to risk and try instead of hiding behind convenient can'ts.

All of this, and I'm still getting married. Starting a new phase of life. Becoming part of something important and wonderful and bigger than myself (whoever that is). It's so much easier to fret about having enough hot appetizers than think about this. But now at least I know what the tender spot my mind was hiding is, and I can confront it. I've got a little more than a week and a half to figure it all out. God help me....