The topic of money comes up and everybody starts feeling bad about themselves for one reason or another

I fear this post is going to come across as pure, unadulterated whining--the type of whining that I promise you I've already slapped my face in the mirror about in order to attempt to snap out of it. If that's what it sounds like, I want you, Interested Party, to know that I don't mean it to be. I'm confused, I'm conflicted, and yes, I'm a little jealous and sullen, and quite frankly, I don't like any of it.

Yes, this is going to be a post about wedding planning. Or at least, wedding contemplating. Feel free to skip merrily to the end where I will attempt to have a less-bitter sign-off.

From what I recall of my studies, the bitterness, frustration, jealousy, and subsequent guilt about the antecedent feelings are fairly typical of one from a middle class upbringing. I've been sitting here in the pants I bought on sale, eating the food I got at the grocery store using coupons, surfing the Internet on the computer my dad and I built from salvaged parts several years ago, and staring at other couples sitting pretty in their Ivory Towers of Wedding Privilege (and please, I know how ridiculous that sounds, considering my ability to even be able to legally get married is privilege enough. Remember the guilt I'm feeling?). On my left side, I have the Wedding Industrial Complex shoving champagne toasts and chair covers in my face and my WIC-influenced friends ever so excitedly chatting me up about the open bar we're obviously going to have and all the hijinks they're going to get into as we party into the night. On my right side, I have a family history of modest church hall receptions of punch and cake, and a vast blogosphere of people (yes, even on my beloved APW) who had the resources and mental fortitude to throw awesome parties on "tight" budgets (say, under $15K).

From APW, probably from elsewhere

And here we are, caught in the middle. On the one hand, I'm so, so proud of my parents for raising me to be self-reliant, thrifty, and forward-thinking so that the concept of spending even $5,000 on one day (even, especially!, if it was other peoples' money and not my own) makes me want to throw up in my Payless shoes. On the other hand, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll really regret it if we don't have some sort of reception/party that involves drinking and other people dancing. Then, on the other hand that I've grown out of sheer frustration, I wonder if I will then regret THAT decision in two years when we realize we have to postpone buying a house because we need another two years to re-save up for a decent down payment (or, hell, later this year when I look at my savings and go "hey, where'd my Jetta Money go???").

What it's all boiled down to is me windmilling my arms around in an attempt to stab anything and everything in sight out of frustration with myself and the universe when I read discussions about budgets. I'm jealous of the couples who are shy and private and were over the moon to have a 10-person wedding where they met at the courthouse and then went to dinner at their favorite restaurant afterwards. I'm jealous of the couples who are paying for everything themselves and who seemingly have no qualms about dropping so much money on one event. I'm jealous of the couples who have parents in a position to insist on paying for most things or everything.

I wish we were the type of people who could look at our collective savings and go "Yes. We can afford a baller party that people will have an awesome time at, and not regret not having this money afterwards in the slightest." I wish we were the type of people who, if my mom announced she was liquidating her 401k because it was useless to her, could go "Awesome. Thank you so much, we are forever in your gratitude, and will put you in a very nice home when you're senile." I wish we were the type of people who didn't value social ritual, and could say "Let's get church-married and go home and watch Netflix while drinking 2-buck-Chuck." To say any of these things, however, would be a betrayal of who we are. Realistically, the responses I and The "why would we stop at Burger King when we can just eat trail mix for 14 hours on this road trip" Boy would have would be "This is House Money and also parties are stupid", "omg mom, no, thank you but please no", and "but SB shrieked and danced outside of a restaurant in 40* weather when we told her we were engaged, we can't not invite her or then not feed her!" respectively.

My mom told us to just elope, and if how crazy I'm feeling already is a portent for what's to come, she might be right.

F* this,
Thrine

Come grow old with me, the best is yet to be

I'm engaged! *confetti*

A friend I've had since high school has always been unfailingly enthusiastic about his life. He's had more jobs than I can count and took far longer than normal to finish college, but he always threw himself 100% into whatever venture he was embarking upon. He would speak so convincingly about each and every new life path (each with its own 5-year plan) that despite the fact this life plan was different every 4 months, I believed him every single time that This Was It and it was going to be Awesome.

That sort of optimism is alien to me. I hold on to doubts and fears and when I look five years into the future for any given thing, I see a thousand paths of disaster lying in wait. I try to be optimistic that, well, my life's been pretty good so far, so the chance of a flash flood washing away all my belongings and ruining my newly painted apartment walls with mold is really quite slim; yet I still have that little voice going "yeah...but it could happen, so don't get too excited".

Being with The Boy is my greatest example of that. To be fair to my psyche, my tendency to doubt our future had concrete evidence (see: him breaking up with me for a month in 2010), but ever since we got back together things were wonderful. Amazing. Completely different than the previous five years. I could tell he was just as invested in our relationship as I was and I would tell myself that is was real, this was It, finally. I was 99% sure of us, and our 5-year (10-year, 80-year) plan. 99% is easy to round up to 100%, and it was easy to tell myself that the part of me that was holding on to the 1% possibility that something could go awry was just being silly and pragmatic, that I was only doubting because it'd be illogical not to. Because honestly, who's 100% sure of anything? Fools, that's who. Right?

But then it snowed.

The first snowfall of the season finally came, and The Boy was uncharacteristically eager about going downtown Naperville to walk around and look at the snow. It snowed, and with just the soft rustling of snowflakes filling my ears, he asked me if I wanted to marry him.

I unromantically asked him if he was sure, and his eager/terrified nodding persuaded me that he had, in fact, thought this through and he was, indeed, sure. We put a simple and beautiful ring on the fourth finger of my left hand, hugged really tight, and smiled like goons. While the world around us was freezing over and turning a beautiful and brilliant shade of white, the 1% left inside me melted away. And let me tell you, 100% is absolutely nothing like 99%.

Don't get me wrong, I know things could still go wrong. People change, life happens, and the possibility of Forever is not a guarantee. But right now, in this moment of time and this stage of our life, I'm 100% sure that this is what we both want, that we're 100% in this together, and 100% going to promise to try our best to make it happen.

Can Finally Rename The Bookmarks Folder From "Unmentionables" to "Marriage Stuff",
Cathi