Things that we might normally consider to be tiny inconveniences have morphed into a patchwork of omens, all knit together to produce one gargantuan red flag. Consider, if you will, the following:
Four months prior: Our justice of the peace - the mother of one of my fiance’s dearest friends - e-mails to say that her license has expired and will not be renewed.
Two months prior: A bunch of our invitations are lost in the mail, prompting some hurt phone calls and tentative e-mails from friends and family members who thought we’d simply opted to exclude them. This list of not-receiveds includes my fiance’s mother.
One month prior: My brother, an Army lieutenant, is subject to last-minute changes in his orders, rendering it impossible for him to attend. This is a devastating blow, as I rarely see him and, of course, I love him fiercely.
Three weeks prior: The friend we’ve hired to DJ the reception texts me … to ask if we’ve hired anyone to DJ the reception.
Two weeks prior: My face breaks out into the kind of dermatologic pus-fest upon which Wes Craven builds cinematic empires. There is no wash, no antibiotic, no steel wool pad strong enough to combat it.
Twelve days prior: I receive four e-mails from four different friends who all have to back out of attending.
Ten days prior: I notice that I have sprouted several chin hairs. Peach fuzz, mind you, but chin hairs nonetheless.
Nine days prior: My antique engagement ring snaps in half at a karaoke bar while I’m singing Jewel’s syrupy break-up ballad “Foolish Games.’’
Eight days prior: I am typing “wedding’’ into this very article when my index finger snags on the “g’’ key and is sliced open by the cheap plastic cap, causing me to bleed all over the computer and leave the word, unfinished, as “weddin’.’’
