The Last Detail

Then, 10 days later, when the design was due, the friend creating the invitations -- one of my closest -- e-mailed. She'd been sick, she said, and hammered at work; for our sakes, she thought we ought to find someone else.

While the first fall-through had been dutifully reported to Natalie ("I was afraid of that," she wrote, simply), I just couldn't bring myself to share this one. I felt at fault for not checking in earlier -- and surprisingly upset that my friend was pulling out. I couldn't risk another scolding.

Embarrassed and under pressure, I started bristling at the slightest interactions -- and keeping Natalie out of the loop. In these situations, Rob is usually the calming factor in my life. But with Natalie, Rob didn't deflect -- he piled on. He'd hired her grudgingly, and her fee still stuck in his throat. One day, I e-mailed him an article on Virginia real estate titled "Lofty Goals in Little Orange." His response immediately veered into wedding talk. His subject line: "Little Orange, Big Natalie."

BIG NATALIE WAS STILL SENDING a dozen e-mails a day, trying to keep us on track as the wedding loomed. I could tell she was starting to strain at our delay in making decisions: The invitations, the music, our entire "planning timeline" were all late. "I'm pretty sure I've included these Qs on a few past e-mails, but now we really need to know if you have a preference," said a typical e-mail. I was torn between resentment -- at her and, frankly, the whole process -- and groveling gratitude, because I knew how many times she was pulling our butts out of the fire. But what was worse, my angst about it was making me feel revealed as one of those self-obsessed Bridezillas everyone loves to hate. I went looking for reassurance that, at least, my pettiness was normal. One day, I took a moment at the bathroom sink at work to sidle up to another getting-married co-worker and ask, insinuatingly, how it was going for her, how she liked the woman planning her wedding. By the open, concerned look she gave me, I knew that she had no idea what I was talking about. She liked her planner; it was all going fine; why was I asking?

I slunk back to my cubicle, to another e-mail from Natalie.

BY LATE FEBRUARY, the budget, unsurprisingly, had grown to $38,000, with plenty of purchasing still needed. And while Rob had begged me to stop reading wedding magazines, I couldn't kick the habit. Every fresh issue of a seemingly interminable stream -- Modern Bride, Brides, even Baltimore Magazine's Bride -- brought some new little detail that I was sure would make this wedding exactly right, exactly us.

All those perfect details turned out to be expensive. Like the letter-press coasters I just had to have that set us back $240. And yet I was nitpicking Natalie about the cost of her choices. The latest battlefield was her suggestion of table displays, a set of glass containers to cover each table's stand-up menus. She'd been working on this idea from our first meeting -- when I'd voiced enthusiasm -- but as I became more enamored of my own creative whims, the containers started looking unnecessary and too expensive. Did I simply, straightforwardly, tell her that? Of course not. Instead I let her spend her weekends searching for just the right glass coverings.

"Florists normally rent these out at $15 to $20 apiece," she wrote. "I'm trying to see if I can obtain them in time for your wedding so I can rent them to you at a chunky discount."

I quickly did the math -- at about five containers per table, we'd be spending close to $1,000 renting glass vases. That was too much for an idea I wasn't sold on. Still, I was reluctant to totally pull the rug from under Natalie. We'd been doing it so much already. I suggested we go to Michaels crafts store.

"I've seen those vases," Natalie said in her next e-mail. "The quality and look is comparable to the price, so I wouldn't recommend it, but if you're okay with that, then the decision is totally up to you." Here's how I interpreted that message: "Go ahead, get the sheet cake, if that's who you are."

Increasingly, Natalie proposed, and we balked. She started sending us weary-sounding e-mails -- "Whatever you want to do, just let me know."

Okay, fine, whatever, we thought, we'll just do it ourselves. But the fact is, we were so busy, we often forgot.