Nightmare or reality?

We show up for the wedding . . . late.  Inside the lobby of the theater, mobs of people were shoving all of the decorations and the dresser that was to hold the guest book out of the way to set up more tables for them to sit.  My big, beautiful, antique dresser had shrunk to the size of a bedside table and someone had placed their flowered hat on it.  I guess they felt that since the guest book that I had spent hours and hours creating was never shipped and didn't arrive in time, that the dresser needed a little pop of color.

Inside the theater, royal trumpeters were playing  'da da DAA' to announce the start of the cocktail hour.  Waiters were trounced upon and cocktail weenies were flying and being snarfed up by the crowd.  There was a scuffle over the last piece of cheese.  The crowd then smelled the dinner food and began pushing and shoving towards the buffet line.  Children were crying and running wild.

On the stage, a 20 piece 50's big band was playing amid the piles of boxes of centerpieces that weren't yet on the tables.  The string quintet that we actually hired were more concerned about their own dinners than being upstaged by the band.

A group of men decided that the wedding programs were not suitable so they took it upon themselves to improve them.  They were busy cutting and folding them into different shapes and sizes.  When I was chastising them mightily, a woman came up to me and told me to leave them alone.  They were making beautiful art and it was keeping them away from the beer.  We almost came to blows.

The photographer never showed up.  The flowers never showed up.  The minister never showed up.

But there were guests.  Lots and lots of guests.  In jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

And me.  In my silver lame' pleated dress.  With a bolero jacket that I just could not keep down over my boobs. 

As my daughter, fiance and I were trudging through a football stadium tunnel, we tried to think of how we could actually have the marriage ceremony.  

Then I woke up.  At 5:45 am.  

Please tell me dreams are not fore-tellers of the future.

Forty-five more days.  I am not stressed, I am not stressed, I am not stressed.

Okay, maybe just a little bit.