Dear My Calendar,
Can we talk? Yes. Yes, you. Uh huh. Hip, hip. May I beg a spot of your time? Heh, see what I did there? No but really. Straight face here. We need to have a face-to-page pow pow. Ready?
I’m gonna need you to stop moving. Wait wait don’t go. Seriously. I’m prepared to indulge all manner of unsavory bribes and other assorted malfeasance as the mission requires.
You see, my wedding is in 3.5 weeks. 24 days. And, well, I just really need more days. I’m losing my footing here. All of the TVs in the back of my Walmart are on. Volume up. Different channels. Is that Bieber on that top one up there? Sweet Baby Jesus make it stop. A dear friend suggested sleeping every other night. Where do I sign up for that?
(Nearly) Every person I’ve loved is traveling hours and days to be there with us as we pledge forever. What if the flow of the day is all wrong? Awkward silences and lulls haunt my nightmares. What if those dear to me don’t come, forget, miss a flight, get lost in Criminal Minds reruns? What if I forget his ring, leave it sitting in my desk drawer in its flat, white mailing box? What of my dress? What if it doesn’t fit? What if it’s too long? What if I’m too wide? Damn you, birthday cake. I could forget my shoes. The seating chart. I haven’t even started it. I’m not sure we can afford a cake. Does anybody really eat the cake anyway? Zombies could crash the cocktail hour. Then no one wants cake. I could bake swords into the cake. Swords are the smartest weapon come apocalypse time. Lethal. Everlasting. Do you want to be fumbling about with ammo whilst the undead knock over the wedding cake? Really? ‘Cause in real life, you run out. Ain’t no armories five miles down the road that no one has found yet. Ok. Grip. Get one.
Are you seeing my pickle, Calendar? Are you smelling it? Are you smelling what I’m laying down here? It’s kind of briny, and spicy…?
Anyway. That’s it. More time. I’ve got my heels dug in. All my weight is shifted backwards. I’ve got the rope double twined around each wrist, sisal snakes cutting their shapes into my skin. And you’re still moving, Calendar. Color me vexed. I implore you to slow down. Pretty please. With pickles. You know. If you’re into those.