There is a saying in Welsh, ‘tri cynnig i Gymro’. It translates as ‘three tries for a Welshman’. It seems that Rhys and I are destined to try it out for size.
When I last posted, Rhys and I believed that we were 6 months from our wedding. Lowri, my cousin and bridesmaid, kindly pointed out that we had in fact, only 5 months until the big day. It’s a good job someone had their eye on the ball. It unnerved Rhys and I and spurred us into action. My laptop keyboards was suddenly hot with activity and emails were flying.
Fast forwards just a few day and Boris announced his pathway out of lockdown. While some rejoiced – both privately and with elaborate social media posts – I wanted to scream. June 21st is perilously close to July 10th. If Boris’ plan is typically over-ambitious and is consequently delayed, and Drakeford is his typically cautious self, then there is a distinct possibility that weddings in Wales will still be restricted on July the 10th while couples over the border can party like it’s 2019.
Meanwhile, a phone-call to the reverend awakened Rhys to the realities of COVID weddings. Somehow, he had hitherto been going about his business blissfully unaware that even in weddings, masks are currently mandatory. Somehow, he had come to understand that they were the protocol for funerals, but not for weddings, as if God would protect all from the virus on a happy occasion but was too sad to see off COVID when there was a death involved. Whatever his reasoning, it was flawed and then he was floored.
So we’ve changed date. Again. After some deliberation, we’re going for September.
Rhys is much happier. Our families and respective I do crews are on board. Instead I’m feeling despondent.
At round three, I have come to believe ‘wedmin’ may well be the true reason some divorcees say ‘never again’! The word alone used to make me cringe. Now it makes me shudder. It is probably some subconscious act of rebellion against the monotony of emailing that makes my imagination borne forth a whole host of unwelcome aspersions to steal my focus.
Take, for example, the weather. No matter how many times I tell myself that ‘we can no more control the weather in September than we can in July,’ and ‘just look at July 4th last year’, it’s a concern. Of course, at its heart is not a concern for the weather, but more that I will be cold. It is a well known fact: if I am cold, I am savage. I am reluctant to spend my wedding day feeling like a thunder cloud.
Then there’s the dress. You may recall that when I was completely torn between two dresses, I asked Rhys if I should go for the demure or risqué dress. At the time, he replied, ‘you have never been demure, so why start now?’ Or at least, it was words to that effect. The problem is that since the wedding was postponed, I have been plagued with the feeling that I will inevitably look ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ by the time the day comes around. A modern Miss Havisham meets tired drag act. September 18th falls just 14 months after I originally intended to wear it. Yet I’ve no doubt that between July 10th and September, my boobs will finally go south, as if the stress of more sodding wed-min (that word makes me want to chunder) is likely to manifest physically in the downward turn of a nipple. I am heartened that Joanna Lumley absolutely endorses mutton dressing up as lamb and I will always and forever absolutely endorse Absolutely Fabulous. And I must also take some perverse comfort in the creeping realisation that this is simply my own insecurities speaking to me, and they’ve only just begun.
Of course, practically, I know that the date change makes sense and that Outlook is my inevitable companion for a while longer. This much I can see. It’s not only the PPE and COVID complications; two of my five bridesmaids are pregnant. Of course, this would not be a reason to postpone alone. Far from it. In fact, far from accepting one’s suggestion that she be dropped from the bridal party, it’s even crossed my mind that having waters breaking in the aisle would probably elevate the day from memorable to legendary. Imagine the drama! But somehow, this didn’t sit so well with her. All things considered then, it’s probably for the best. After all, it’s a wedding, not the nativity. I guess I had best get organising.