Scared shitless…

(Yes, I used the word shit in my title.)

People, I have cold, obnoxiously frozen feet. The wedding has got me tied up in knots and there are nightmares spouting from my brain at night. And it’s source leads to one small object, a camera. I’ve never been one to have my picture taken. Hell, I can’t count the number of flawed photos that I’ve set fire too, shreaded, maimed so that no one could ever have that image of me seared into their retinas. I do it to protect you! I do it because I care!

This time I’m not going to be able to get away from the camera. Shy away from everyone saying look over here because I get to be the rockstar of this party along with my rockstar husband. And the questions that keep running through my mind, as I look in the mirror nitpicking everything apart:

“If I move my hair this way it covers up this scar.”
“Why didn’t I work out more? Why didn’t I just go get plastic surgery? Why do my arms have to hang on to all of this flub?”
“I wish I had straightened my nose, teeth, etc.”

These are images that will be on desks in frames, on a wall with all other sorts of family pictures, or in an album to be shown to our children.

I need some straightening out to do. Start looking at the features I love: eyes, cheekbones and lips. Great lips. *muah* And just mantra the day away with, “When you’re happy, you’re beautiful.”

Will someone remind me of that on June 7th? Thanks!