Cold Feet = No Joke

When you are planning a wedding, it’s easy to get wrapped up in the details.

This has happened to me. I’ve been so focused on getting my to-do list broken down and completed that I didn’t take the time to realize this wedding is for me.

That reality hit me this week.

I am planning my wedding. An event in which I will be front and center with over 100 people there to witness. Me… The girl that doesn’t celebrate her own birthday

Cue the cold feet.

When you Google the term “cold feet” you get hits on articles about realizing you’ll be with the same person for a long time and how regrets before the wedding can lead to higher divorce rates.

But you don’t see much relating to cold feet about the event itself.

My reservations have little to do with my relationship because I trust that even when things get tough (because eventually they will, let’s be honest) we’ll work it through. That’s the beauty of who we are. We are fighters. We will get through even the toughest spots because we both feel this relationship, this love between us, is worth fighting for.

Hell if he walked in here today and said “Let’s to go the judge and get married today” I’d jump up without a worry and I’d happily say I Do.

I’m totally ready to be married. I’m just not ready to be a bride.

So here I am, nervous, anxious, tearful and worried about this huge event that I must be present for in a few weeks. Not only that but in just a week I’ll be the focal point of a shower…ugh.

All this attention is making me itchy. And overwhelmed.

I wish I had a previous experience with such a big event so I could kinda know that at one time I made it through. But I haven’t. This is a first.

And hopefully my last.


I don’t know when it happened,
when my shackles suddenly fell free.
But the day it happened was so sweet
because You had finally released

Little did I know,
[all that time ago]
that I was keeping myself locked away,
[safe and sound]
Until I realized one day
that my freedom had been found.

It wasn’t under the bed
or behind the couch.
It wasn’t hidden in an overhead
but instead placed in my heart
[safe and sound].

I never knew that it had never been gone,
just tucked behind a wall,
[safe and sound]
But always around
waiting for a new dawn.

Waiting for the watching eyes
and those scary words
to seek another prize.
Another target…

As suddenly as it began,
[as rudely as it started]
I was no longer a thought.
I was only a distance memory.
Like a hazy horizon,
you can’t seem to remember clearly.
Just cobwebs cluttering your view of today.

And when that sunny side-up
decided to finally rise,
I took a deep breath, filled my cup,
and sipped deeply of the azure skies
that freedom allows.

Thank You for letting Me go…


Grape is the flavor of my childhood.
The sticky sweetness that runs down your arm
as you suckle at a pop from the freezer
made with the Welchs from the store
bought just the day before by Mom.

Grape is the flavor of my summers.
The sweltering days of bike riding
and searing hot concrete beneath our Keds.
The lava hot black heat
beneath our feet
licking at our soles as we dash from yard to yard
trying not to meet our fiery demise
only to snag some ice cream and candy from the
jolly van of treats trolling our neighborhood.

Grape is the flavor of my bravery.
The courage found in my small body
as I stared down the high dive
at the local pool,
my friends waiting below.
Where my mom bounced a baby sister
or brother
in the wading pool
enticing me with a treat if I jumped.
There they all sat, treading water,
splashing about while I toed the edge
then fell
to make a ripple in the waters around them.

Grape is the flavor of my freedom
on that last day of class
as we celebrated with sweets and goodies
brought by the doting mothers
dreading the end of school days.
While they planned and executed our last day soiree,
we signed each others’ books:

Keep In Touch
Have A Great Summer
See You Next Year…

Grape is the flavor of my memories.
The soft edges of my blurred inner eye
remembering the bike rides down the hill;
pool days and bloodshot eyes from
too much chlorine;
Otter Pops; Kool-Aid; Jolly Ranchers;
frustration at my parents for sending me to bed
while the sun still hung in the azure sky;
playing for hours in the sprinklers till our hands
– prinkled and wrinkled with joy –
became the excuse of our mothers’
to turn the water off.

Grape is the flavor of my too short summers,
my too long school days.

Grape is the flavor of my childhood.