December 27th, 2017.
Sitting around the dining table in my Mum’s home, surrounded by my boyfriend’s family and my own, I got engaged.
It was a wonderful moment – if not for the hilarity of me exclaiming ‘I’ve been such a bitch‘ – maybe referring to the *subtle* hints I’d dropped for a while as I’d become convinced that he was not interested in marriage.
From that moment, I became overwhelmed and thrilled at the idea of our wedding: the dress, the venue, the music, the photographers and so on.
Over the last two and a half years, we’ve booked and tested all things wedding-related. Dress bought. Bridesmaids sorted. Hair and make up. Waistcoats. Decor. Food, Venue.
The list never ends!
On the week of March 2nd (my birthday), we went into town and purchased our wedding rings – one the final and most significant moments leading up to our August date.
The following week, we received a call to notify us that the rings were ready. I decided to not venture into Cheltenham town centre – the races were on and town was always bombarded by herds of tweed-covered drunkards. Plus, parking would be a nightmare.
How foolish.
By Monday – the world as we knew it, stopped.
Lockdown took away the many things we didn’t realise we took for granted. Visits to the shops, popping into the supermarket for one or two items, visiting friends at a bar or coffee shop, hugging those nearest and dearest.
It changed my job – from teaching teenagers seven hours a day, to reaching out to them through a keyboard and screen.
From March to May, we prayed and hoped that our wedding would come out ‘the right side’ of this. That there could still be a chance. Perhaps it’ll pass by then? We still had five months, right?
March came and went.
April followed suit.
Where I should have been enjoying hair and makeup trials, I spent aimlessly looking through my Pinterest board of ideas.
Our invitations became scattered. Some sent early on. Others halted by the possibility it may not go ahead.
May arrived and swept past without a trace.
As discussions in Westminster revealed themselves to be plans for a much longer period of lockdown, my hopes of being an August bride were fading fast.
Those closest to me tried to approach the topic of postponing the wedding. Giving me hope and advice for when to rebook, what the benefits would be and why it’s the wisest decisions.
But, along with the emotional turmoil that lockdown had brought, I couldn’t face it.
Anytime I imagined waiting another twelve months for the day I’d already waited nearly three years for, I’d become overwhelmed with sadness.
Luckily, my parents realised how monumental this was and decided that we should meet (socially distanced of course) face-to-face to discuss our options.
On the drive there, I felt comfortable enough to finally open up about this with my partner.
Next year would be the wisest.
Twelve months of waiting was the least we could do to protect those we love.
So, the date of my planned hen do will approach and pass.
Our ‘wedding’ would be only three weeks away.
For now, COVID-19 has taken so much from so many.
We will beat it and I will walk down the aisle…in 2021.
But not like this.
teaching and tara 