Day 1, Thursday
Cullen House-My room
It's late. Very late. I should be asleep, actually, especially if I want to have enough brain cells left in the morning to concentrate on carrying myself down the aisle with any semblance of grace.
We all know that's not going to happen, but sleep might improve my chances...slightly.
I've started this journal at what seems to be a very important milestone in my life: The night before my wedding. That's right. My wedding.
Who'd have ever thought, right?
I've decided that it would be constructive of me to use this time to begin recording the events of this night and the years that follow in order to—
Oh, who am I kidding? I'm doing this because I'm bored out of my skull, Alice has the Gestapo (Jasper and Emmett) planted outside my door to make sure I don't slip down the hall to the guest room and molest my husband before our wedding night (like I'm some kind of black-and-white movie villain out to steal his innocence), and all I've got to work with is a laptop and a sharpie.
It was either this or drawing happy faces on the window for an hour and I really don't need Esme attacking me with her dust buster tomorrow because I scribbled all over her pristine walls and windows with permanent marker. I'll be nervous enough without my mother-in-law-to-be coming after me with cleaning supplies.
So. Anyway. I've come to the conclusion that not only will this journal be good for my physical health, but it will help Edward and me to develop a stronger relationship by being able to review the earlier stages in our marriage and compare them—
Still in my room (Edwardless)
Crap. Either Jasper or Emmett tattled on me to Alice or that girl has bionic ears and could hear the typing from halfway across the house, because she stormed into the room a few minutes ago with a handful of fabric in one hand and a very vicious-looking pair of pinking shears in the other and told me to put the laptop away before it ended up in the trash with the rejected parts of my dress fabric.
Obviously she'd been undergoing the Wedding Dress Renovations we'd discussed. Alright, the ones I'd forced her into doing.
My dress was beautiful, I'd give her that, and if I had to get married at all, getting married in a dress that I wasn't completely repulsed by would certainly make it easier, but there was just one tiny problem with the lace in the underskirt: There was too much of it. On the outside the dress looked normal, but underneath its calm, demure exterior--well, it was like an explosion had taken place. And it didn't take a genius or a psychic soon-to-be sister-in-law to figure out that no matter how short that aisle was and no matter how many test runs we did, one of those slips of fabric was going to find it's way beneath my feet at the most inopportune moment and I was going to end up in one of the guest's laps. Or, if Fate was feeling especially catty, knocking over the priest.
That was just the way my life worked and, deny it though she might, no amount of practice or praying on Alice's part was going to make it otherwise.
So that's how it came to be that Alice was up at almost-midnight, swimming around in lace instead of doing something productive.
Like waking the caterer up to ask if he'd made sure to order the exact amount of food she'd requested, or contemplating whether the curtains really matched the rolled-out carpet that separated the aisles of chairs in the expansive living room into two sides and marked my path to married bliss. Or whatever.
Anyway, I proceeded to explain to her how I was too nervous to sleep and how she'd dragged my only source of comfort halfway across the house where he could do nothing to console my fears and what did I get for my positively heartrending performance?
Alice pointing the pinking shears at my head and growling, "GO. TO. SLEEP." Before storming from the room.
I think this wedding stuff is really getting to her.
I guess it wouldn't hurt to at least try and sleep.
Not even remotely tired yet.
Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.
I've run out of ways to say "I'm not asleep".
Maybe I should try counting sheep.
Yes. I'm that desperate.
I have counted sheep forward, backward, sideways, and in Spanish. I have counted so many sheep I may hear baa-ing for days. I will never be able to look at another sheep again.
Finally! My eyelids are starting to feel heavy. Not from the sheep counting, though. I've started trying to solve linear equations in my head. If that doesn't bore me to sleep, I will never sleep again.
I wonder what Edward's doing right now…
Hopefully thinking of me. And for the record, me thinking about my own fianc—
Ugh. Still can't say it. I'll have to work on that…later.
Anyway, thinking about my own --insert un-say-able word here-- does not mean that I've got some sort of sexual frustration issue, despite what Jasper might believe. Although, at least Jasper has some physical evidence to back his claims up (though I still say those supposed "waves of sexual tension" he's been feeling are just indigestion from all that grizzly bear he and Emmett have been sharing). Emmett, on the other hand, seems to think I'm some sort of depraved sex-fiend. He even offered to buy Edward a rape whistle in case I finally "crack under the pressure" and try to jump him or something equally unlikely.
Ha ha, Emmett. Ha ha.
Sigh. I've gotten myself all irritated and riled up.
I'll never get to sleep at this rate.