My Les affair

So everyone is asking me how the wedding plans are going.

This is what I tell them.

Oh, you know, nothing much, we’ve booked in the big stuff, the venue, the photographer, but the details are still months away.

It’s frustrating; I want to talk about collecting mason jars and bunting and where you can get round paper lanterns at wholesale prices and homemade lemonade dispensers that look like they’re from a turn of the century apothecary.

I’ll be honest. I’m feeling a little melancholy about it.

There are two things that make me feel better:

1 – To go and have a beer at the venue of the reception. Then head upstairs and get that loving feeling again. It makes me go all a-flutter.

2 – Les Mills.

I am not a sporty girl. I will whinge and carry on with ‘do I have tooooo?’ whenever The Mister wants to go for a bike ride or walk around Lake Monger.

The thing is, I also want to look good and feel good on our Speeeeccciiiiaaalllll Daaaaaay. I do want to look decent in the photos. I am exercising purely for the photos. Show me a bride that doesn’t do this and I simply won’t believe you.

I had forgotten how much I love Les Mills’ classes.

My favourite? Pump. Low impact, no jumping around, no running. Just loads of weights and reps (the instructor says that one pump class consists of about 1000 reps). I still can’t finish the lunge track or the squat track without stopping to, you know, regain any feeling, but I feel amazing after every class.

I’m yet to try the dance classes on offer, it’s just that even during a class like pump where you lift weights, squats and lunges, I still manage to fall over – I’ve got it down to one trippage per class now, usually only when I’m stretching my quads, so now I just grab a wall to help balance me out.

My dressmaker got me in for an appointment the other week and upon my rocking up she realised she had booked the wrong bride. There was no sense in getting my measurements now. Even she said they were probably going to change for the smaller. So we just ended up flicking through international (re: expensive) bridal mags.

So, I guess when people ask me how the preparations are going I am up to this – exercising like a maniac and putting off my lingerie shopping to the very last minute.

The bridal lingerie, says my dressmaker, is the skeleton of my outfit. She says she doesn’t want the dress ‘to do all the work’. Urgh. It sounds horrific. There is ‘work’ to be done and my dressmaker is worried about the poor dress grasping for dear life to hold me in.

So I am also, it seems, exercising like mad for the salesgirl at Bras N Things.

What could be worse (or better, who the hell knows) is that the salesgirl could be a matronly woman who has no qualms in commenting on my ‘healthy’ figure while she manhandles my double-D’s.

I want to be able to choose who I get naked with in the changeroom. And I want to be able to lock the door. I will not ‘come out and show us’.

Seriously, if I could just get away with a body stocking of spanx, we’ll be sorted.

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