Somewhere in the middle of my jetlag haze in the wee small hours of this morning, one very clear and succinct thought came to me from nowhere: I should get bangs. Except, seeing as I'm English, it was more like I should get a fringe.
So as soon as it reached a time that was legal to telephone people, I made a hair appointment---something I haven't done since March, if you can believe it, when I started growing my hair out for the wedding---and then later I tried to google the exact hairstyle I wanted, only to find out that it didn't exist. I mean, I know what I want---I think, kind of---but apparently no-one else in the history of the world (or at least no-one in the history of the world who is easily googleable) has this particular hairstyle, which is kind of a shaggy bob with blunt bangs.....or maybe a blunt bob with shaggy bangs, I'm not sure. I wonder if I can just draw the stylist a stick-figure cartoon. Or maybe beam her directly inside my head to look at the tiny pictures there.
I think what I really want is just something different. It seems the most obvious sign in the Book of Obvious Symbolism, but now that the wedding's over and we're back from the honeymoon, I've got this almost desperate urge to start making changes. No, wait, Changes---you know, with a capital C. These Changes have manifested themselves primarily in my hair---honestly, who else sits up in bed at 4am, BANGS! I MUST HAVE BANGS! in an illuminated speech bubble above her head?---but I am also, suddenly, obsessed with redecorating my apartment. Internet, I only walked back into my apartment 24 hours ago, after a three-week absence from it; could I not just appreciate for the way it is a little while before becoming struck, violently and immediately, with the urge to paint my bedroom dark charcoal gray? (You know what? I blame her.)
It's like I suddenly need projects again, I guess: something to focus on or work towards, after two weeks of rest and slothfulness. One might argue that my first project might be catching up on all the episodes of Top Model and Mad Men I've missed while we were away---and I would agree with the person who argued this, YOU ARE RIGHT ON THE MONEY, SIR, JUST CHECK MY DVR QUEUE---but I've got this weird itch to nest as well, to clean and paint and throw out and upgrade. Part of it's the brand new shiny pile of wedding presents sitting in the corner of the kitchen---the Leaning Tower of Crate and Barrel, as we're calling it---and my utter delight in having exciting new things to find places for (anyone else get satisfaction out of organizing their glassware or am I alone in my sickness?), but part of it's also the desire to create something new, to start over, to demarcate our life Before Getting Married and our life As A Married Couple, despite the fact that they're both taking place in the same six hundred and ninety seven square feet of space.
But anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? I haven't even told you all about the wedding or the honeymoon, and though both are undoubtedly old news by now---in the breakneck, chop-chop, keep-it-coming turf of the Internet, anyway---I'm afraid that I simply still have quite a bit to say about each, so you won't get off that easy.
Did I mention, by the way, the organist who WOULD. NOT. STOP. PLAYING, even after we'd finished the first hymn, all four verses of it? Not only did she then play a fifth verse, during which we all looked around and smiled nervously, but after that torturous two minutes of my life was over, she went on and played a sixth one as well. I assure you, I thought I was being Punked by Mr. Ashton Kutcher himself, although at that point, it became universally hilarious rather than just mildly mortifying, with both Sean and I struggling (and failing) to keep a straight face up at the altar, while this poor octogenarian organist bashed on and on and on and everyone stood there, glancing around anxiously, like "but there are no more words. What do we sing?"
After a while, one of my bridesmaids even touched her on the shoulder gently, whispering "I think we're done now." The organist, her face like thunder, looked up at my poor helpful bridesmaid, gritted her teeth, and hissed "I.....have.....to.....FINISH!", whereupon my poor bridesmaid retreated meekly back to her place and waited it out, smirking mirthfully like the rest of us.
Sadly---or maybe happily?---there is no video evidence of this, although happily---yes, definitely happily---it was the only major thing to go wrong on the day (I mean, I could talk for hours about how the swizzle sticks were in the wrong place or Men's Wearhouse gave Sean the wrong cravatte, but no-one would ever have noticed that but me), and so I guess that's pretty lucky; my mother, for instance, once attended a wedding where the organist NEVER EVEN SHOWED UP, so the poor bride had to walk down the aisle in complete silence, the only sound the clicking of her heels on the stone floor of the church and her pitiful and unmistakable weeping. So, you know, small mercies and all that.
What I do have video evidence of, however, is my walk down the aisle, courtesy of a very accommodating Simon, who gallantly took on the role of Chief Video Camera Wielder about three seconds before the wedding party was set to enter the church.
"Oh my god, I forgot to give someone the Flip!" I whispered in the Ladies' Waiting Room, which was actually just the church library, very nicely and thoughtfully accessorized with a full-length mirror, ice-cold bottles of water, and two incredibly sweet and helpful wedding co-ordinator women, one of whom stood outside the toilet stall and held my bouquet while I struggled to un-Spanx and then re-Spanx myself moments before the ceremony, kindly ignoring whatever curse words I might have been (very un-churchily) muttering. "Don't worry," whispered one of my bridesmaids---incidentally, the very same one who tried to get the organist to wind down during the ceremony; I guess we know whose name I'll be engraving on that MVP trophy---"I'll sneak into the church and find someone to use it."
That someone turned out to be the marvelous Simon---which reminds me, he needs an MVP trophy too---and this is how we got this. If you turn the volume up high, you can hear my brother Luke playing Pachelbel's Canon in D in the background. But possibly not over the sound of Sean sobbing.
PS: Sean would like you to know that he was NOT sobbing, that the church was very dusty and he had something in his eye. Wait, both eyes. For, like, ten minutes. And anyway, even if he was crying, they were very manly tears, the sort of tears men cry, and right after he cried them, he ate a three-pound steak, rare and bloody, with his bare hands, and then lifted a car with his pinky finger while putting up shelves, all the time reciting baseball stats while wearing a lumberjack shirt.
(Ah, whatever, buddy---I see you wiping the tears away at 2:28. Can't fool me.)