paper scraps.

I want to just dump everything out of my brain right now. I am certain that the result with be a pile of paper scraps.

Constant low-level stress has been the mood for a month. This week, it's gone up to mid-level, with occasional spikes. People keep telling me to enjoy my last few days of singletude and this time of preparation, and I am trying, but I can't. Being told to enjoy it only stresses me out more because I can't seem to do it. The stress is entirely because I committed to making all the decorations, and then I didn't start doing that until very late. I think everything else will be okay, because the checks have been written and the professionals are in charge. And if it's not okay, at least there will be beer.

I worry that there won't be enough flowers. There are already things that I would've liked to do that I've just scrapped because it's not worth the time I'd need to devote to it. So the paper flower boutineers won't have leaves on them. They still look pretty sweet, and I'm the only person who will know that they look just a little bit better with the green burlap leaves.

I'm committed to stay up very late every night this week to work on crafts. I bring in supplies to the office and fold paper fans in the conference room during my lunch hour. Housework, never a high priority for me, just isn't getting done at all. Instead of sweeping up the dog hair, I add tiny slips of paper and hot glue trails. I told Josh that I wasn't making dinner at all this week, so either he could, or I would buy some lunch meat and cheese and bread. I had to add laundry to my list of daily tasks, in between making bouquets and folding paper butterflies, just so I would have something clean to wear to the rehearsal dinner. I added "shave legs" to the list, too, because I'm afraid that if it isn't on the list, it will get lost in the folding and gluing.

The only time I really feel calm is when I'm working on something. Otherwise, I just feel like I should be.

I have destroyed five atlases, a book of aerial photographs of San Francisco, one hymnal, one book of violin music, a Babar book with beautiful pictures and some unfortunate depictions of cannibals, a Snoopy book full of goofy puns, a COBOL programming manual, and a book of Celtic history that I turned out not to need. I almost ripped up a book of sheet music, but then I noticed it was from 1925 and decided not to. If I wrote poetry, I could write long odes to my paper-cutter and my exacto knife. I have a v-shaped cut where my left pointer finger got in the way of my scissors.

I have arguments in my head with people. Completely made-up arguments that they start with me, not knowing that I am a burning ball of barely suppressed tension. No one has said anything mean to me, rather everyone has been very helpful and excited. I have to make up the provocation before I can make up my completely obliterating retort. This is not the mind of a woman enjoying this time of preparation. Someone told me that weddings make people crazy, but I took it as a warning about demanding relatives or flaky caterers. I didn't think it would mean me.

I think the decorations might turn out to be amazing. I think people will be impressed, and I will be proud. I just want to get to Friday night, because I've decided that there will be no more stressing out once the rehearsal starts. I want to be in that stress-free place. But I also don't want to, because it's too soon and I have too much left to do.

I have let the wedding, the party, take over my brain. I feel shallow because I can't think of anything but centerpieces, when I should be considering the lifetime commitment that I'm about to make. The most I have thought about that is to wonder whether Josh will still want to marry me after I am mean to him for messing up a paper lily.

I don't have an upbeat way to end this. I just needed to get that out. I'll be okay. Everything will be lovely. I won't have to make any more flowers, and I'll be married to the most excellent man.