I don't like weddings. I never have and I likely never will. I'm not even keen on attending my own, and I'm the one planning it. They're usually frilly and frou-frou and steeped in outdated symbolism.
That being said, even though I've been coerced into having a relatively traditional ceremony and reception to launch my marriage, I've been able to detect in myself a smidgen of enthusiasm about the setting. If the weather is kind to us we will be wed in a forest in autumn. I love autumn. I envision being surrounded by trees that are cloaked in russet and gold and crimson, the bottom of my dress rustling through a scattering of brilliant fallen leaves as I walk up the path toward my soon-to-be betrothed.
I do not want to envision myself slipping on slimy, decomposing foliage against a backdrop of naked, spindly trees. Yesterday, however, I saw some leaves turning red, and the meteorologist on the local news remarked that the colours are already changing just north of the city. Crap. I'm getting married just north of the city, but not for another two months. By then the trees could be bare, the skies could be drab, the air could be damp and cold. There is a literary term for the weather reflecting the mood, but the only terms I can come up with at the moment are "pathetic fallacy" (close) and "manifest destiny" (not even in the ballpark, and not even a literary term). If it is too chilly or there is -- egads! -- rain, we will have to hold the ceremony in a cramped and lacklustre covered patio with uneven interlocking stone floors. The literary term for that is "sucks the big one."
I have been accused of being awfully pessimistic by some people (namely Scott, who ironically is the winner of the Crankiest, Most Negative Person Contest, an imaginary contest that I just made up). I wouldn't call myself pessimistic, but realistic. Have you ever known fall colours to last for two months? They barely last two weeks. And we all know what happens next. The leaves turn a dull brown and fall off the trees, the air becomes bone-chillingly damp, the skies open up into five solid months of rain and snow, and everyone north of the Tropic of Cancer sinks into a deep and unrelenting depression. Pessimistic my foot.
Did I mention that I don't like weddings?