The Truth Hurts Tuesday ~ A Heartfelt Confession from Your Overly Dedicated Wedding Planner

Perspective. There's that fucking word again. Ugh. Perspective. Sometimes even I hate that word because it really does shake the bullshit out of a situation and forces you to see the truth. And, as we all know, the truth really does hurt sometimes. Without giving too much away about myself, recently I went through somewhat of a difficult time, and although the dust has settled, I had the opportunity to reevaluate what's important in my life, and also, what's important your life too, bridey. Because as I was trying to get through my "situation", there was this one bride (who was aware of what I was up against), didn't care and nearly made me throw in the towel, quit wedding planning and search for what's next.

The most fucked up part of the story? This chick was done. Finito! She was married! She had her wedding, came back from her honeymoon and was "checking in" with me. Lovely, right? Well... No. It should have been, but it wasn't. And the crazy thing, is that her wedding day kicked ass. Every detail was executed perfectly, the family dynamics we were concerned about did not present themselves, and she (and her sig other) were quite thrilled with how the day went. So, why was she torturing me? What the fuck did she want? Well, the venue misplaced a few items. SMALL items. Easily replaceable items. And of course, she wanted me to go hunting and fight the fight. 

Really? You want ME to call the venue for you, and have them search for the cake knife and remaining ceremony programs (even though you have an extra box of them at your house)? Really? Bridey, you KNOW that I am in the middle of a personal crisis, and yet, you want me to follow up with the venue? WOW. Listen, I get that I orchestrated your event, handled all of the details and held your hand before sending you down the aisle. But, today, please... Either hold my fucking hand or call the chick at the venue yourself. It's not like you need me to get you thousands of dollars back for a shitty experience. You're asking me to care about a fucking cake knife, that you received as a gift... I mean... It's not a family heirloom, it's a gift from your registry. Deal with it... YOURSELF!

It was all I could do not to lose my shit and say exactly what I was thinking without exercising self control and filtering the bitch out of my voice. But, I did. And it was hard. Because, bridey, I hate to say it, but half of you will end up in divorce court, and you'll want to use that fucking cake knife to stab your sig other in the balls. And the other half of you? Well, you'll have your fair share of shit to deal with too. Real shit. Life or death shit. And that cake knife? You think you will still care about that stupid fucking cake knife? No, you won't. You will care about each other. You'll fight for each other. You'll fight the fights that are worth fighting for. You'll sleep on a chair next to hospital bed, and pray. Or maybe you'll sleep in a hospital bed, and pray for a brighter future. You'll learn that anything can happen at any moment, so appreciate what you have TODAY. Right? Kinda puts things into perspective, doesn't it?

Bridey, your wedding day is nothing more than a symbol of what's to come. I've thrown extravagant, over the top weddings, and I've thrown super simple weddings... And the ones I love the most? The weddings that represent the couple. The weddings that are heartfelt and see beyond the bullshit of "the day". These B+Gs get that their wedding day is only the first step towards whatever future they make of it together. Right?? So, now do you understand how little I care about that fucking cake knife? Can you see why that phone call had me thinking about what else I could possibly do with my life that didn't involve taking care of anybody else besides the people I love and myself?

Bridey, please... Let my confession be food for thought when you find yourself stressing over the stupid shit. In the end? It really doesn't matter. All that matters are the two of you...

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