I kind of hate New Years Eve. I hate it because of the sparkle, because of the champagne, and because of the fun it’s supposed to contain.


Because you see, I love sparkle and champagne and fun. I love nights on the town and any excuse to wear glitter. I love happy music and dancing with the people I love. And I love kisses all the time, especially when there’s a countdown and a whole years worth of pomp and circumstance leading up to them.


But I hate New Years Eve, and this is why:


It NEVER lives up to my expectations.


And the worst part is that it’s not for a lack of trying.


I planned New Years down to the detail last year, only to find out that the venue where we had tickets had oversold—leaving us out in the Colorado cold until 11:15. We got through the doors but couldn’t make it much farther—the space so packed we could barely move. Someone had dropped a glass on the floor, which sliced my foot—exposed in flats—wide open. And to top it all off, the DJ forgot the countdown, and absentmindedly wished us all a Happy New Year at approximately 12:07.


Needless to say, it wasn’t what I had hoped for.


But that’s what I’ve noticed about special days; it’s really hard for them to live up to the hype.


We have expectations upon expectations about what these special days should look like.


Christmas should be the time when our family never fights—twinkle lights and cookies serving as the most effective bad mood repellant.


Our birthdays should be epic—romantic dates and surprise parties. And not a single person should forget to celebrate the one day that’s totally dedicated to us.


But if you live on earth, if you have a human family, and if you’ve ever had a birthday, you’re more than aware that those days don’t always live up to our expectations.


And this expectation, this pressure, this one-day-hype is exponentially higher when it comes to weddings.


I got engaged on Christmas Day (so yes, Christmas exceeded my expectations this year), and since then Carl and I have been up to our eyes in flowers and venues and guest lists.


And as we’ve been planning, I’ve begun to feel the weight of this unbearably heavy pressure for perfection.


It’s the pressure that can add “zilla” to the end of any sweet girl’s name, the pressure that makes moms crazy and causes families to fight.


The pressure says that this one day should be the happiest, most perfect, most love-filled day of our entire lives.


YIKES.


And the thing that scares me the most is this:


If I can’t even plan the perfect New Years, how am I going to pull of the most important day of my life?


And what happens if I don’t? Am I facing a lifetime of disappointment, years of regret? If I just tried harder or smiled bigger or paid a little more to the chick doing my makeup would it have been perfect?


And so as I’m calling florists and touring venues, I’m not planning an event, or even a wedding—oh no—I’m planning the most important day of my life.


And so in response, I’ve decided to give up.


I’ve decided to take that heavy pressure off of my sweet, unassuming wedding day.


Because on that day, it could rain, or someone could be late and miss the whole thing, or my dress could rip, or someone could get sick. There’s a whole litany of things that could go wrong on that day—things that are completely outside my control.


And I don’t want my love for our wedding day to rely on such fragile conditions.


So I’ve decided that it doesn’t have to be a perfect day, or the best day, it can just be a really, really good day, and I know it will be.


Because that’s the day I’m marrying my best friend. It’s the day when we’ll be surrounded by the family and friends that have made our lives so rich and beautiful up to this point. There will be music and dancing and it will be a party.


It will be lovely because of who’s there and what we’re there to do.


And so no, my wedding day may not be the best of my life—because pressure never helped New Years Eve, and I know it’s not going to be a miracle worker for our wedding either.


And furthermore, the best day of my life—who says I have to pick just one?


Article originally posted on the lovely Nellie Magazine.