Eight.

That’s the number of months until we get married. Exactly. To me, this doesn’t seem like a very long time. I think to my fiancé it feels like forever. Apparently, we are already many, many points behind on our “to-do” list, but I’m not worried about that. I’ve usually been the type to do things in my own way and my own time and to hell with the consequences.

Zero.

That’s about the number of good ideas I have for my wedding. I’m working with another girl at the gallery who is getting married this summer as well. She is frothing over with brilliant epiphanies as to what kind of embroidery she wants on her gown. The woman could build a house with bridal magazines. And she accuses Martha Stewart of stealing her ideas. She also informs me I will have no fun at my own wedding because I hate being the center of attention.

Nearly fifty.

Is how many pounds my mother keeps reminding me I need to lose before I will come close to looking good in a wedding dress. I’ve heard it said that picking out a dress is the most wonderful part of planning your wedding. To me, it was just about the last thing I wanted to do. At this point, I’m pretty convinced I’d be more comfortable in…anything other than a wedding dress. And I’ll probably look better in anything but a wedding dress too.

One.

The total amount of helpful people at the moment. I feel bad for him because I know he wants to help but I don’t know what to ask him for help with. I don’t know how to make what I want happen or who I have to talk to or how to go about finding out how to talk to them. And don’t even mention money. My family is either closed-lipped or helpful in all the wrong ways. And his family is so laid back that they’ll be happy with almost anything. Giving me no direction whatsoever.

A billion.

The times I’ve considered asking if we can just go to Vegas.

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