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.
