So we've got 25 days left until we get married. We've just got the nitty gritty details to handle, like finishing out dancing lessons (Steve is quite good. I have two left feet.)

We need to figure out who is sitting at what table, paying mind to feuds and alliances.

I need to make whatever appointments I need to make (like nails? Or should I paint them myself?)

Steve needs to get his tux worked out, and I have one last dress fitting to attend.

We need to write up a newsletter to put in the gift bags, and we need to print programs for the ceremony, but only after we can figure out who is reading what and which music we're playing. 

You know. It's a bunch of stuff, but not unmanageable.

And now I'm getting happy and excited.

I went to my dress fiitting, and my bridesmaid Heather was there for moral support, and the ladies in the shop this time freely offered opinions, and so the choice was a bit easier this time ...

I went with ... drumroll please ... UNDER!

Here's another example, again NOT ME, NOT MY DRESS, but this is a French Bustle:

 

My dress doesn't have the snazzy pointy beaded designs shooting flames of bedazzled awesomeness down my backside.

 

My fabric isn't as heavy, and so has more of a cleaner line around the floor. 

 

I will say no more because this isn't my dress, and I need to stop comparing them because while this lady chose a nice dress and a lovely bustle, it's a bit different from mine.

 

And anyway, this post is to just show that a French bustle doesn't always have to look like the bride attempted using the facilities without help and wandered back out with her dress crammed into her undertrousers.

 
Tomorrow, Steve and I head to Delaware. I go for my make-up trial. Then we get our marriage license.  Then we meet with the deacon to get our ceremony all sorted out, so that will be ... a hoot? Maybe not. But fun nonetheless.

I’m hoping that by typing out this recurring nightmare, which I had again last night, I won’t have it again, because it is ... how you say ... scary and stressful.

Here it is:

I want to take a shower, and I have a bath towel wrapped around me. I find myself at the entrance to a large public women’s restroom with rows and rows of stalls. It’s faintly lit and my eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. The distance from the stalls to the sink is improbably wide and the length of the stall rows is almost unending.

The place is undeniably filthy, and even through the faint bluish light, I notice the damp floors and dripping pipes and faucets. There’s toilet paper strewn across the floors, sticking in puddles in some places and collecting what I hope is dirt and mud. I’m afraid that I might step in something, and my bare feet squish on bits of detritus as I begin my timid search for the showers.  

As I get deeper into this place, my pulse quickens as I realize the first room opens into another room and then another and another. It’s a labyrinth, but each room is different from the next. Some rooms are square and the stall doors are missing or hanging off their hinges. Some have showers, but the curtains are closed and I’m afraid to open them for fear of what or who I will find inside. While I travel into the maze, I can hear voices and the slap of bare feet on the floors, but the moving shadows are unidentifiable. I'm afraid to know I'm not alone, but I decide it would be worse to hear silence and to be left to wonder.

I come to a room that is absolutely pitch black; I cannot see my hand in front of my face. I open my eyes wide in the total and utter blackness while I strain to see, and still I’m greeted with nothingness. In the same instant, I hear a woman screaming in terror while I realize the room is flooded with water almost to my knees. I feel the panic wash over me in my desperate search for a way out, but I don’t scream. Someone else is doing it for me, and I feel akin to this person, knowing that someone else is terrified in this black, flooded room with me.

And then we emerge, breathless and tentative, back to the filthy dimness.

We’re together now, me and this lanky African-American woman; she too is clutching a bath towel around her with the towel’s ends in a fist at her chest. We acknowledge each other only peripherally, united in our effort of escape and taking comfort that we’re not alone. We’re trying to find our way out of this place, back through all the rooms.

And then I wake up.

Maybe this means it’s time to clean the apartment.

The first time Steve and I went swimming, we’d anticipated a restful night’s sleep on account of all that exercise. However, Steve spent the night feeling jittery and restless, while I found that consuming 967 pounds of taco meat combined with a metric ton of cheese at bedtime is surprisingly not conducive to a sound slumber.

Last night, Steve and I went swimming again, and all the old idiosyncrasies of swimming became fresh in my brain:

• Searing calf muscle cramps that prompt me to reach for bananas or any other high-potassium food I can find.

• The hair closest to my face gets bleached nearly white.

• The ever-present scent of chlorine, no matter how often or thoroughly one showers.

• Shoulders that grow broader than my hips, plus cut tricep muscles.

This time, we both slept so incredibly soundly that when I woke up this morning, I realized it was too late to make it to the gym, but that I had a few moments to snooze before I needed to get ready for work. It seemed like I only blinked my eyes and when I looked at the clock again, a whole half hour had gone by.

Only one week until my next dress fitting… which will then be only one month before we’re married. Exciting times.

This three-day weekend we just had was glorious. I stayed at work until 8 p.m. on Thursday night to tie up loose ends, and then I met Steve and some friends out for Mexican food.

Friday I went to our health club for a relaxing work out, then we drove up to Baltimore for a friend’s annual 4th of July BarBQ. I had been a little nervous, because last year other “friends” of ours brought Steve’s ex-girlfriend uninvited to this party, which was of course an unpleasant surprise. It still blows my mind that they did that, even simply from a courtesy to the host perspective. I mean, our feelings aside … hello, McFly. It’s called an invitation?? They later claimed the ex was invited, but the host had independently already confirmed that she was extremely irritated by the intrusion, and without the prompting of my indignity. But anyway. This year they left the baggage at home, and so a good time was had by all.

Saturday we went to the AT&T Classic golf tournament for the afternoon, followed by a local seafood shack for dinner. It was another great day spent with friends.

Sunday was the best day of all. Steve and I went out for a delicious brunch at Liberty Tavern, followed by Crate & Barrel to do some registry stuff.  After that, we went on a triathlon equipment procuring mission. Steve is going to compete in two upcoming triathlons, and we had to get him some swim shorts, goggles and a fancy new bike. I bought a pair of weight-lifting gloves for myself, since my hands are getting all calloused and rough on account of the beatings from hauling dumbbells around the gym floor, which sometimes makes me want to lift lighter weights because of the tenderness on my palms. So now I have no excuses. I used my gloves for the first time this morning, and they feel fabulous.

Anyway.

So yesterday, after going on our sporting equipment shopping spree, which I view as investment in our bodies and our health on account of its being cheaper to be healthy in the long run than falling ill and dealing with medical bills and prescriptions and all the overall suckitude and also an investment into just being happier since exercise improves mood while being sick makes one a hateful bastard plus getting to live longer while being in better shape … phew. Yes, so after the spree, we went swimming! And it was fun!

I was a competitive swimmer once upon a time, and so I was able to provide Steve with some tips. For someone who has never been a competitive swimmer and who has never even swam as a workout, Steve did amazingly in the pool. He has a nice stroke and great mechanics. We just need to be consistent with the workouts to prepare him for his races. Practice makes perfect and all that.

I’m looking forward to more and more swimming with him over the coming months. I think we’re going to have a great time. After we were done in the pool yesterday, Steve said, “I feel awesome.” I asked if he was being sarcastic and he said that it was a little bit of sarcasm mixed in with a heaping dose of truthfulness -- that he actually did feel awesome, albeit tired. I love that feeling.