I have been planning my wedding since the morning of my Bat Mitzvah. I was twelve-years old. We were already running late for the 9am start of Sabbath services. I describe my wedding dress to my mom. She says,

“Lets have the Bat Mitzvah, then we can plan your wedding.”

Fair enough.

Bat Mitzvah over. Money in the bank. I’m at Friendly’s designing my wedding dress in crayon on the back of a placemat. My mom asks,

“Does the groom have any say in all of this?”

Groom? What groom? The idea of a groom hasn’t even crossed my mind. At some point over the years I added a hypothetical groom, as well as an open bar.

Yesterday I had brunch with a friend. She mentions getting her armpits waxed. I exclaim,

“You got your armpits waxed?! Was that so painful?”

“Not as bad as a Brazilian. I’m doing it for my wedding.”

“For your wedding?”

“I don’t want to have a five-o’clock shadow.”

Just when I thought I’d planned for everything I haven’t even considered how hairy my armpits will be by the time I’m drunk and waving my arms over my head.