Planning a wedding from the other side of the Atlantic is complicated

All of a sudden, it is two and a half months to my “third time lucky” Covid-postponed wedding and I’m trying to coordinate suppliers from my perch across the Atlantic. This has led to a few suboptimal moments.

First of all, how do you decide where you want flowers when your spatial awareness leaves something to be desired and your venue is cavernous and minimalist? “Just pick things that are in season,” my mother tells me confidently, despite the fact that I once posted an image of daffodils on my Instagram with #tulips. No, I don’t know my gardenia from my hydrangea or my rubella from my daisy. Yes, I’m aware one of them is German measles and not an attractive plant, and that I’m not supposed to mix them up in polite company.

That’s the problem with weddings: there are things brides are supposed to care deeply about, and others that we’re not supposed to care about at all. My husband-to-be has been telling me for months that he can’t show me photos of his suit because he wants to see the look on my face when I see him and because “all eyes will be on him” as soon as he enters the room. I must admit to being a little perturbed, considering I was sold the dream that everyone would be fawning over my own outfit during my wedding, but I also find it genuinely endearing that he cares that much about his presentation on the day. What he doesn’t care about is flower placement, buttonholes and bouquets – but I can’t exactly work up a sweat about them either. So we’ve had to compromise and agree to be equally involved with the florist, otherwise we’d end up with a stripped-out barn and no decor.

Shoes are another thing that I can’t bring myself to care about. Does it really matter whether I wear platform trainers or stilettos under a skirt so long as you can’t see my feet? Must I fawn over $400 shoes in Manhattan boutiques rather than popping down to TJ Maxx? I suppose I have to have something on my feet, but even the idea of committing to one pair stresses me out. What if I lose them or scuff them or otherwise offend them before we get to the day?

Even worse, what if I trip down the aisle in them? My clumsiness is legendary in my family and this is the sole reason why we are getting married in a venue with a straightforward walk-down aisle rather than at the venue we also loved but involved the bride having to navigate a narrow set of winding iron steps before the ceremony. Can I rely on my 5’10” 65-year-old dad to catch me if I take a topple? Maybe I should keep my brother, who is built like a tank, in the wings – or at the very least one of my sisters, both of whom are stronger than oxen.

When I’m done worrying about those logistics, I can of course begin to worry about the wedding dress itself. When I pick it up from the alterations specialists, they have assured me it will be packaged up in a flight-safe bag to carry across the Atlantic. But what if I’m not able to weasel my way into a flight attendant’s heart so I can hang it in the first class cabin’s wardrobe while flying economy (I’m not especially charming)? What if I accidentally leave it stuffed under the seat like a life jacket? What if I drop an overfilled glass of red wine into the bridal gown bag during turbulence? What if I open up the package on the other side of the ocean and find out that the seamstresses are actually charlatans who have taken my money and left me with cut-up pieces of tissue paper packaged cleverly in order to resemble something flowing and white?

All of this is a long-winded way of saying I’m absolutely fine and not panicking about the wedding – and I’m only half-serious. When you’ve been through a pandemic, what colour tie everyone’s wearing or whether someone’s third cousin will have too much to drink starts to feel a little insignificant. Truly, so long as I turn up in some clothes and my husband is there, I’m sure we’ll be able to cope on the day. But there are a few weeks of rubella roses to get through yet.