The Last Detail

We met at a crepe restaurant in Pentagon Row in late September. In person, Natalie reminded me of a younger version of style icon Kate Spade. Petite in her little cardigan and sleek brunette ponytail, she looked like she drank gin-and-tonics in the Hamptons and owned the perfect, trendy little dog. She seemed efficient and organized -- important, because I am neither. She seemed, in fact, like someone I'd always wanted to be. "This woman," I thought, "will make sure we do this thing up right."

She asked me how I had imagined the Big Day, and I told her, honestly, that I was as surprised as anyone that I was actually getting married, and so the tulips-versus-dahlias details had never crossed my mind. I just wanted something simple and classy, I said. I'd be happy to hand the reins over to her. Finding vendors, addressing and mailing the invitations, keeping us on schedule both before and on the day of the wedding -- none of that would be my problem anymore.

That night, Rob initially balked at paying several thousand dollars for planning. Did we really need to hire additional help? I flared up. There were hundreds of things to do, I told him. Had he even finished that guest list I'd asked him for? Had he called the harpist? Did he think I would do it all just because I was the woman in this couple? Did he have any idea?

Together we agreed that Natalie could stay.

MONTHS LATER, another wedding planner would tell me that, coming into each project, she's aware that she's entering her client's life at a moment of high stress and vulnerability. Tensions crackle between bride- and groom-to-be, among family members, between everyone and the budget. The mantra of contemporary planning is that the wedding should, in the words of Natalie's Web site, "reflect your style, values and personality in every detail." So if a vendor or magazine suggests that your "presentation cake" be switched out for a sheet cake from Costco at serving time (cut discreetly in the kitchen so they'll never know) -- well, it can sting a little. And the planner -- either the tiny devil tempting you with things you can't afford or the realistic angel limiting you to things you can -- can feel like both a humiliating witness to your discomfort and the reason that you're uncomfortable in the first place.

Early on, chatty e-mails flowed between Natalie and me, and I merrily began filling out my "planning folder." The budget had ballooned -- to almost $34,000 -- because Rob and I had impulsively chosen a beyond-our-budget caterer: A tiny basement restaurant in Baltimore that one Sunday had served us an exquisite roasted-beet amuse-bouche. Without waiting for Natalie's blessing, we signed on the caterer.

I was still luxuriating in our choice -- would it be fois gras pops or mini squab burgers? -- when, in the middle of December, I sent Natalie a note. Our menu was pretty much a pork-o-rama, I'd realized: onion potage with pork belly, a tartlett with a prosciutto ham -- even the salad came with bacon herb dressing. Was this a problem? "Am I being crazy?" I wrote her.

"That's something that [the caterer] should've asked before putting together any kind of proposal, and something I would've covered had I been brought into the game at that point," she e-mailed back.

I stared at the screen a long time. Was I imagining it, or was I being scolded? By the very person meant to protect me from faux-pas-induced scoldings?

I should have then turned around and written Natalie, asking her what exactly she meant. Did she just want to reassure me that she was on top of it? But I didn't -- I internalized. And, just like that, something shifted.

NATALIE HAD WARNED US that if we were going to have friends help with our wedding, to avoid "awkwardness," we should check with all those volunteers about charges, if any, and scheduling. Good idea, I thought. After all, we were counting on friends for the invitation design, the cakes, some photography, setup and all the music.

The first things to go were the cakes. We'd asked a neighbor who co-owned a catering company to make them. But when she finally gave me her price, it was 40 percent higher than the area average.