Like Old Times

"It definitely needs to be lower," Edes said, making eye contact with me in the three-way mirror, where my reflection stood in my wedding dress. She was right. I tried to explain this to the Russian seamstress, tactfully.

"I know I'm driving you nuts." It was my third fitting. A mere 9 days before the wedding, I knew it would not be my last. "I know I asked you to close this up, and you did a great job." I did not lie.

"You want me to open it up," she offered. She took scissors to my bustline, and it was much improved. We dithered about the bustle, the shoulders that are still too big. She pinned and clucked. I have what has to be a final appointment for the 18th.

I worked and ate popcorn and M&M's in my office while Edes borrowed The Boy's computer and internet. "This feels like college," she said, "except we never would have worked this early." She IM'd me from across the room. It was 3:00. In our younger days we would have done that at 3:00, but in the morning.

Later, we hit the O's game in borrowed seats and new hats. We took this picture and sent it to The Boy, who is spending the evening with his father and friends blowing money at Mohegan Sun on day one of his Bachelor Extravaganza. He verified, once again, that there would be no inappropriateness. He's been sending text messages all night.

Today I built a template for a proposal, handled a cake crisis (spice in place of banana walnut) and dodged the rental facility who wants a ceremony "floor plan," which does not yet exist. I coordinated musicians, made wedding accoutrements. Tomorrow morning at 7 :30 I'm headed with my aunt to the wholesale florists to discuss options. I've already set the coffee timer.

I'm whitening my teeth and crossing off days; I'm savoring "singleness" but dreaming of Tahiti.