“Who the hell is that?”
After approximately 463 days of wedding planning, I still don’t know 75% of the people invited. I’ve given up trying at this point; if I have to struggle to introduce you to my new wife, you deserve the awkwardness of eating and drinking at my wedding without properly knowing me.
I got home from jiu jitsu tonight before Meg got home from the gym. I raced to shower and snack, and was literally on my way to my sanctuary (read: gaming computer) when Meg intercepted me and asked for (read: demanded on pain of death) 5 minutes of my time for wedding crap. When she wouldn’t concede to letting me play a game during the 5 minutes, I realized that Bridezilla was dead serious and well past the point of screwing around.
Consequently, I didn’t even struggle as she forcefully led me to her laptop. There I found the golden Excel spreadsheet.
Fact: The meaning of life can be described using Excel.
Along the bottom of the worksheet (if that’s even the term; I actually had a real major in college and didn’t have an entire class devoted to Excel) were a series of tabs that, if one couldn’t attend the wedding, could be used to visualize the entire ordeal to the smallest of details. I decided against flipping around the tabs; if I were to see any costs I would immediately go blind and attempt to stab myself with a spoon.
What I did see was the tab marked “Coming”, which, unbeknownst to me (but knownst to Meg), represents the table breakdown.
Both historically and in man urban legend, the seating arrangement is renowned as one of the more difficult, and to a large extent downright offensive, wedding tasks. I however wasn’t quite so worried about this chore. My mom would be handling my family, Meg handling hers, so short of coworkers, there was little I had to do.
Miraculously, I was correct (for those of you keeping track at home, that puts the total number of times I’ve been correct during the wedding extravaganza up to one). I was asked to proof the seating arrangements for my coworkers. Meg had done a good job based on who she knows, and I had no changes.
As I perused the rest of the list, I found, not surprisingly, that I didn’t recognize a good deal of the names. A few I did, such as friends, immediate family, and annoying cousin-in-laws whose names rhyme with “fancy”. I then got to the list of the bridal party, which also went off without a hitch. I kept reading.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jason Dobies”
The noise I uttered can best be described as a cross between the yelp a dog emits when you step on its tail and the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. For some reason, seeing it in writing shocked the hell out of me.
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t some sort of subliminal cold feet or anything, so don’t run to the comments with theories of me not wanting this (after all, let’s remember who initiated this production with the foolish purchase of one ring). It’s just strange seeing the “Mrs. Jason Dobies” as a reality (granted, I always thought it was stupid that Meg loses all sense of identity post-marriage, but the sentiment is there). Along the same lines, I think it’s going to be weird the first few times I see her sign something “Meghan Dobies”. But strange in a good way; as patriarchal as it is for her to take my last name, the tradition of it all still conjures up the “Oh shit, I’m married” emotion.