Diary of a Type A Bride

I don't recognize the woman in the mirror.

Long gone is the Amy that lounged in her pjs all day, watching marathons of "Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?" and "Bridezillas." The Amy that passed by the bridal magazine rack at Borders and considered the word bride as a far off description of something that may happen, not necessarily will happen. 

I've become one of them.

Note to self: I will not become a Bridezilla. 

There's a code among soon to be brides and those that have gone before them that apparently goes unspoken, unbeknownst to the world of single women out there, those untouched by the ring finger bling. 

Being a bride is a terrifying thing. And I'm not talking about the whole committing yourself to someone for the rest of your life thing.

Before the awe at the sparkliness of the ring even begins to wear off, the lists begin to pile up in the part of your brain reserved solely for wedding planning.

The same part of your brain that triggers hysterical crying and PMS induced rage at non-PMS times of the month.

Colors. Date. Wedding party. Caterer. Photographer. Church. Marriage prep. Registries. Guest list.

I could go on, but next Christmas would be here by the time I'm done.

Visions of sugarplums and dancing bridesmaids in my head, the whole process of being engaged is clearly not as much of a charmed life as I had originally hoped. Although dang, that ring sure is sparkly. And my fiancee sure is amazing.

The easiest decision, which just happens to be the one thing that provoked all this stress, was saying yes.