My Bridezilla Confession

By telling you this story I'm hoping to relieve myself from the residual guilt of acting like a total psycho. Luc and I agreed to forget it ever happened, but for me, writing about it is cathartic, and entirely necessary.

The bridezilla story

As many of you may know, Luc and I went to visit his family in Saskatchewan for a week. Our flight was on a Friday night, and since Luc works until 6 pm, he was taking the skytrain straight to the airport. I, however, was racing home first to check the mail (for the many wedding RSVPs I have been anxiously awaiting). Upon arriving home I realized that Luc had the mail key....at work....downtown....which meant the locked mailbox stuffed full of RSVPS (I could peer at them through the slits in the metal) would remain there for the week that we were away. The week that I planned to call the non-responders, start sorting out table arrangements, and generally get a hand on things that were guest-count dependent. 

I'm not proud, but when I realized that I couldn't get at the reply cards for another week, I kinda went crazy. First I called our landlord and asked if he could come to the building and open our mailbox. Not happening. Then I called Luc and strongly suggested that he leave work early to bring me the mail key. He thought that was a bad idea. So I called him again. And maybe a few more times after that. Finally realizing that he wasn't coming home, I grabbed the first few things I saw: a paring knife, a fondue fork, a bobby pin and tweezers, and walked as calmly as I could down the stairs to the lobby of our apartment building. And by calmly, I mean that I burst into the hallway brandishing my McGyver-esque weapons, eyes wide with delirium, palms sweaty with anticipation of busting up that stupid mailbox. Thank the lord none of the neighbours were around. Actually, they may have been, but I was too focused on the task at  hand to notice.

I proceeded to hack and pry into the mailbox, tearing up the contents with the surprisingly sharp prongs of my fondue fork. Using my mixed arsenal of kitchen wares and grooming products, I managed to partially wedge open the mailbox and pluck out all of the RSVPs. Granted, most of them were pretty messed up when they were finally released from the maniacal grip of my tweezers.

Standing in the lobby, surrounded by shreds of envelopes, I had an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. But after taking a moment to assess the situation and my bizarre behaviour, I felt like a total Bridezilla. By sharing this story, I'm hoping to wash my hands of this incident and move on. But after all, isn't there a little bit of Bridezilla hiding somewhere in all of us?