Say Yes to the Dress Gave Me A Full-On Anxiety Attack

Hey guys, I’m back. No longer do you exist in a world without my ADHD-infused writing and sarcastic whit. Congratulations to you on the return of me. 

Speaking of congratulations, I’ve got big news: I’M NOT ENGAGED YET!!!! I know, I know, I’m questioning his sexuality too. But after long conversations with my therapist, strangers from the internet, and the entire fleet of Uber drivers within the Chicago city limits, I’m realizing that I may just have to suck it up and be patient. That, or give more blowjobs. I’m going to go out on a whim and say both.

Since I’ve been mentally preparing for our blessed event (the proposal, not the wedding, duh) for the better part of two years now, you can bet your ass I’ve stepped up my Say Yes to The Dress viewing game over time. I call this the “economic theory of looming proposals.” As time in the relationship sans ring increases, so too does a woman’s manic obsession with everything wedding-related. This also includes her ability to judge others’ weddings, but we’ll save that z-axis topic for another day.

I’ve always enjoyed Say Yes. I almost interned at Kleinfeld’s in college because all I wanted to do was help make people happy as they prepared for one of the best days of their lives. Barf, I know, but I genuinely felt this way. I took a TLC hiatus over the past few years as Netflix became a thing and my Bravo-obsession intensified to the point of no return. But last week, as my boyfriend was out on boy’s night, I decided to try something new. I had just returned from a stressful week traveling for work and was actually looking forward to a blissful night of serenity with just myself and the voices inside my head. I poured myself a half bottle of wine and turned on a marathon of Say Yes.

The emotion explosion that ensued will leave me with PTSD until well into menopause. By the time I was on episode three, I could not watch 10 minutes without pausing mid-frame to take a picture of a woman in her dress and sending it to my best friend with how heinous it looked. Each couples’ intro made my eyes roll and I proclaimed that their marriage wouldn’t last longer than three years (except for the lesbians, they’d make it forever). Each mention of the ring carats or ceremony flow sent me spiraling into the dark web of internet wedding planning. I think I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning at 5am with deathly anxiety about where we would take our wedding pictures if it rained. I started researching spotlights just in case my bridal suite didn’t have enough light in it. I created an account on The Knot and started researching venues. My eyes darted from one side of the room to the next. Who is going to officiate? What happens if my vows are longer than his? Do I like anyone in my extended family enough to invite them to the wedding? Do you think I can save money by having a random college frat guy bartend instead of a catering company? Will my boyfriend die on his bachelor party? Will my future mother-in-law hate me for not taking her dress shopping? What if the cake melts before we cut it?  Will I have any friends left after my wedding? How many weeks does it take to get my teeth as white as a Smile Direct Instagram sponsor? Will my guests be okay with the accommodations? What if the accommodations aren’t up to par? What is par? If “par” is my version of par, I am royally, out of this world, no question about it, FUCKED. The. List. Does. Not. End.

My boyfriend interrupted my oncoming 18-wheeler of thoughts. “Hey babe, how was your night?” he said in his still half-drunk state. I looked up at him, right eye twitching and said, “I don’t think I should watch Say Yes anymore.” He is so lucky to marry me one day and I am so lucky for his Xanax prescription. 

You know you missed me.


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