Yesterday, I coordinated a wedding. Sounds relatively simple, yes? But, the reality is far more saturated than that basic description. It’s almost noon. I don’t intend to change out of my pajamas. I may or may not get back in the bed soon. My blisters have blisters. My lower back is speaking a language mostly comprised of ampersands, asterisks, and at signs. Yesterday was a fourteen-hour day and the day before was similar. The last time I ate a complete meal was probably 3 days ago. I spent most of yesterday in an alternate world, one where I was constantly in motion and barraged by questions. At one point, I looked up and saw an actual line of people, probably only 3 or 4, but my brain saw a Woodstock sized gathering. Each person had some random object in their hand. They were the helpers, the ones who say, “What can I do,” but don’t really seem to understand what it is you need. One by one, they shouted, “Where does this go,” as they held up their _____ (insert: saltshaker, doily, wood slice, burlap runner, something that looked like a twig, a pebble, a handful of dirt). It gets to the point where you cannot form words any longer. I have learned to just smile, hold out my hand, and take the object. If I’m still coherent and someone has made sure I take occasional water sips, I will exclaim, “Oh, I’ve been looking for this,” in order to make them feel victorious. Wedding coordination, the making, the styling, the set up, and the takedown, is one of those things easiest done solo, in my opinion. Then, there’s the added angst of being the person who makes sure everyone walks at the proper time. The flower girls mustn’t cry for mommy. The horse in the pasture behind the macramé altar mustn’t nibble on the macramé. The photographer promised to have the pictures done in 30, but you know it will take hours unless you reign them carefully. The father of the bride is always going to wander off right before the dance with his daughter. And, on and on we go. I am reminded why I don’t do weddings anymore. My almost 55-year-old body can’t run on adrenaline as long as it once could. The old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.