Friday Fabü

2 Dec

(I know you already know most of this, darling blog reader, but this is from Fabü in the current issue of Local iQ)

That’s right: I’m a married woman. If you recall, my beau proposed on Aug. 30, my 40th birthday. The following weekend, whilst lounging poolside at a Scottsdale resort during a Labor Day getaway, we discussed wedding ideas. The bigger they got, the less we liked them. Ultimately, we decided to quietly elope on Oct. 1.

Basically, I had three weeks to plan a wedding. Was I stressed? Yes, but not an iota as much as I would have been if it was a big, fat, frilly affair. My propensity for anxiety is high even when I’m stretched out on the couch, reading a novel; thus, tackling a big wedding is likely more than my oft-delicate nerves can endure without multiple meltdowns that would put every last horrorshow on that Bridezilla program to shame. I used to plan huge events for a living. I’ve had my fill, thankyouverymuch.

Agenda item number one: location. We wanted to marry outdoors in a rustic, picturesque locale. We chose the old bridge in Red River. Rustic: check. The leaves were turning, which made for a spectacular backdrop. Picturesque: check. The autumn chill was definitely present, but not enough to prohibit wearing a wedding gown sans parka. No parkas on your wedding day: jumbo check … wedding parkas aren’t my thing; it’s strapless or nothing for this bride, and nobody likes a nude bride, well, except for nudists … and pervs … but let’s move on.

Click here to read the rest of the column.


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