Falling to pieces

Y'all, this wedding planning business will probably kill me. Slowly. Bit by bit. But surely. I just spent...oh...4 hours working on the guest list and compiling mailing and e-mail addresses. My eyes are crossed, my brain is confused, my hands are tired of typing, and my left elbow has that weird pain you get when a sharp joint rubs against a hard surface (like a desk) for too long. I'm fairly certain I'm going to wake up with whiplash, because Chris has been sitting behind me for nearly an hour, going through old photos and laughing and exclaiming, "You HAVE to see THIS one!" causing me to whip around to check out old pictures of him with a mullet. A mullet, my friends. Hee. Okay, that's probably the best part of the night. Anyway, I've also had mysteriously sensitive skin lately. In fact, the onset of my irritable skin maps exactly with the onset of serious wedding planning. Coincidence? I think not. People, I'm breaking out in hives over here. HIVES. Because of wedding planning. HIVES. This is not supposed to happen.

And this is only part of the story. The southern California satellite office of this production is also freaking the fuck out, though in a way I can't begin to understand. The satellite manager (aka, mom) called this morning at 9:45 to tell me that she was up all night worrying about scheduling problems with the two sites. She wanted to know what time the florist would have access to the ceremony site to set up flowers and when we would have access to the reception site to set up placecards. Y'all, these are flowers that we haven't yet ordered from a florist we haven't yet spoken to and placecards for a seating chart we haven't even begun to think about much less fret over. We are, oh...7 months out right now and this is just not going to get better. How the fuck am I supposed to manage this?! I need to factor a new item into my wedding budget: a therapist.