Why Fiancées Are Like Dick Cheney

I just had to ask my fiancée to tell me again why we’re not having the wedding of my … well, not dreams, but let’s say whims.

I’d imagined bringing everyone to a lakeside resort somewhere in Ontario for a weekend, which in my mind would result in a truly special 36 to 48 hours of fun and relaxed bonding for family and close friends, who would remember it for the rest of their lives. That was my pitch, anyway.

My fiancée, as usual, had to play the realist. In the days following the proposal, we — mostly she — trolled web sites and downloaded PDF brochures for pretty much every resort within a few hours’ drive of Toronto.

Even trying my idea in the most sensible way possible and with a small invitation list would blow our modest budget to bits. (We’re mostly paying for the wedding ourselves, which is a whole other column.)

Here’s the thing that makes me very different from my fiancée: In the ensusing months, I’d actually forgotten all of that, which is why I had to ask again why we weren’t going with my idea (not that it’s a big deal).

Needless to say, the responsibility for planning has been divided somewhat less than evenly. Only one of us maintains a wedding binder brimming with clippings and lists and ideas. Oh, and you can guess who whipped up the budget spreadsheet.

In my last column I called my fiancée a Napoleon in an H&M dress. To look at it another way, she’s the Dick Cheney to my George W. Bush. She gives me the executive summary of the plans and I nod along, knowing the details will be patiently explained to me next time I forget.

In other words, things are working perfectly. This is the asymmetric decision-making system, after all, that put us in a well-priced townhouse with a rock-bottom mortgage, a transaction now praised for its shrewdness and prescience among family and friends.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t do it.

The latest news is that “we” have the wedding mostly planned; handing a cheque over to the venue this week will make it official. We’re looking at a stand-up, five hour cocktail reception for about 100 guests, one that fits our Honda Fit-sized financial plan. From what I understand it’s going to be a hell of a party, and you know who to thank for that.

Image courtesy of Belltown Messenger on Flickr.

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