How I lost my mind and became a complete Planzilla
I had 20 Chrome tabs open and was frantically estimating the square footage of my parents’ backyard in Reston, VA, from a hammock in a small Ecuadorian fishing village. The WhatsApp call with my fiance was spotty. It cut out every 6th word. But I needed to add a number to my spreadsheet. According to the event rental website, each chair, without set-up, would be $2, and I was determined to get a quote for my 250 guests, even if it killed me. Only after a careful and delicate negotiation process did my fiance patiently convince me that the chair-counting and backyard-measuring could, in fact, be discussed over cocktails when I returned. When I hung up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was becoming a monster. Our wedding is over a year and a half away.
I’ve never been a planner. I don’t book accommodations until I land, and friends schedule my time by proxy, through my twin brother or significant other. When I had a travel tip — that an ATM stop is necessary in Quito, on the way to Manta, because there aren’t any other ATMs on the route — my friends Kimberly and Jason were hilariously dumbfounded. “How did you know?!” They asked. “You never plan anything!” It had been a complete accident, of course, but somehow I now found myself engaged to logistics.
But now I was in deep: curating hotels within a 3-mile radius, assembling question lists for vendors, oh, and are there holidays with blackout dates? A German guest at the hostel asked me about weddings and what was typical in America. We sat at a picnic table that could comfortably hold six, eight if you squeezed in, and ten if you added chairs to the end. When I told her the average wedding in America costs around $33,000 with approximately half spent on the venue, she almost spat out her 50 cent fresh-squeezed orange juice. “ But it’s okay!” I added brightly. “I’m having a backyard ceremony and reception. So, I only have to worry about renting a tent, and table, and chairs… so…” I trailed off. “Only about $4,000 for the venue?” She laughed and joked about going into the equipment-rental business, while I made a mental note to look up picnic table vendors.
I’m one of three children: all boys, no girls, the first to get engaged, and the closest my mother will get to planning a daughter’s wedding. She actively despises Pinterest, so she created a PowerPoint instead. From edge to edge it’s filled with decoration pictures, three to a slide. Chairs are markedly absent. Highlights include chalkboards painted with signature cocktails, plank tables suspended from tree branches, and a canoe filled with ice and beer. Wait — tree branches, could we make rope swing benches? What’s the weight bearing capacity for a dogwood branch?
Her taste is impeccably rustic, simple, casual. Farmhouse chic — a perfect match for Dan and me. She walked me through it on the phone as I silently judged her for using photos from the first three listicles that come up when you Google “backyard wedding.” She hasn’t included the Mr. & Mr. chairs, up-cycled antique furniture painted mint green or covered hay bales.
After she finished extolling the virtues of seed packets as wedding favors, I found an opening.
“What do you think about seating? We need a chair for every guest and I’m not sure we can fit — ” “Oh, we don’t need chairs for everyone. Your friends would be just as happy on picnic blankets”. Fair point. Mom: 1, Matt: 0.
The planzilla tried to confirm the other details: what size tent? How many blankets can we fit by the pool? She told me not to worry. We’d sort it out later.
Later? But what about my spreadsheet?! I was officially on a rampage. I was sketching our backyard in a notebook, shading in the flat areas where reception seating and tables could go. Only after zoning a section for refreshments did I do a mental check-in. What was I doing? In two weeks, I’d be home and could walk the space myself with a measuring tape and a level.
Somehow, three weeks after Dan’s proposal, just one week into wedding planning, I can tell you the exact date, venue, number of guests, budget, dress code, and compare the relative costs of seashell-inlaid versus folding bistro chairs for an event that’s 493 days away. Simultaneously, I haven’t filed my tax extension, which was due yesterday. Both of these things coexist and are true.
It appears I’m more interested in how many people you can squeeze into a table when calculating 10 square feet per body instead of 12 or what kind of flowers are used in centerpieces than, say, following federal law. Is this just my priorities? Please someone chime in that it isn’t just me.
The sun is setting. 20 tabs have become nearly 40.
I feel hungry.
I start to close them and save the latest changes to my spreadsheet.
Where’s my phone?
My Gmail has three drafts to vendors requesting price quotes.
My phone reads 7pm.
I’ve somehow spent the whole day comparing chairs and interrogating my family about yard dimensions from a hammock thousands of miles away.
Sense has returned.
Yet, I can’t help but wonder: if we arrange the tables in a U-shape, will we be able to squeeze in a few extra seats?
