Dave and I met our minister for the wedding on Tuesday night, and we both really liked her. She’s very warm and funny, and we felt very comfortable with her. She has a lot of different options for customizing our ceremony, so we can make it feel like us – and even though Dave and I are probably going to stick with the mostly-traditional vows, I like the idea that we have options. In any case, the ceremony won’t be too preachy – a few spiritual/higher power references, but no sermons about accepting Jesus or anything like that. (For any of you who care, I do consider myself a Christian, but I also don’t consider that to be something that I need to broadcast to the entire world.) She gave us homework – Dave and I have to write a “mission statement” for our marriage, which should prove to be interesting.
Then last night, I went to meet with our photographer – it was Dave’s only night off this week because he has a lot of work stuff going on in the evenings, so I went by myself. [Side note to Sally: I don’t think Dave is allergic to the photographer, but I’m going to keep a close eye on him just in case.] [Side note to Angie: She looks nothing like the pinched-sourpuss Starr on “Project Runway”. She’s got blonde curly hair and a great smile. They couldn’t look more different, for having the same name.] That was fun, I really adore her photos and she thought I was 24, so obviously I love her.
Tonight, after I leave work, I’m going to get a massage. Hooray! I can’t wait. I called at least half a dozen places, trying to find one that could fit me in on this particular evening, because it’s the only free time that I have, since Dave has some dinner meeting thing tonight. The place that could fit me in had only a male massage therapist available. In the past, I’ve never really been comfortable with that idea because I have a truckload (or 3) of body image issues and a petrifying fear of negative judgment from, well, everyone, but men in particular. Right now, though, I am so exhausted from waking up a hundred times every night with my back aching that I just don’t care. If some man who I’ve never met before (and who I may never see again) realizes that I’m flat-chested and that I have cellulite on my thighs, big freakin’ whoop. It’s not the end of the world. Because guess what? There’s a fantastic guy out there who loves my pancake boobies and my jiggle butt, and he’s marrying me in 17 days. So there, body image issues. Nyah.
Heh who's this happy young woman who has just emerged from a dark place. Enjoy massage give me a man anytime!!! The body, who the hell cares, you are right someone adores you so who else matters!! and hey there is nothing the matter with your body. Wait till you are dressed for your wedding