My wedding dress arrived two weeks ago, and I did it. It’s black.

A cocktail dress, with lace edges and sheer sleeves. A dress for the ages, I think.

It channels Audrey Hepburn in Paris in 1954. It’s a runway dress. It even swishes around my legs when I walk. 

I’d been feeling timid about traditions (and damn that, seriously). But my friend Angela said that if I could see my own face when I talked about this dress, I’d buy it already, and stop looking at white gowns with a scrunched-up nose. 

And so, black. Audrey Hepburn-esque black. Black that fits like a dream with vintage chandelier earrings and satin pointed-toe shoes.

In Paris.

In October.

To Tyson, who has hired an accordionist for the vows, and tries to make me happy every day.

We’re eloping — just us two.

I think there will even be fall leaves.

And yes, I know.

Meanwhile, and this is guaranteed to assuage any envy, I’ve been starving myself lunatic-style since July to look good in a wedding dress of any color. It’s been a stressful couple of years with lots of change, which means I ate M&Ms and made pie every day and never went to the gym.

Come June, I couldn’t zip up my skinny jeans. I couldn’t zip up my regular jeans. I was living in yoga pants and a knit dress that I am now  tempted to burn.

Gross.

I’m doing that HCG diet, which I know is terrible and crazy and unhealthy, etcetera, but it works quickly (20 pounds and counting), and I have a deadline and a plane ticket to France.

Do you think they have s’mores in France?

Do you think there’s such a thing as a s’more wedding cake?

I better not know.