Am I excited about my wedding? Yes and no

My twice-postponed wedding could actually be happening and yet I’m still filled with dread that something may go wrong, writes Holly Baxter

To be sitting at a kitchen table talking about whether the colour of the confetti is exactly what we imagined feels in equal parts wonderful and absurd (Getty/iStock)

We’re officially on a one-week countdown to our twice-postponed wedding day, and I’m experiencing a mixture of emotions. “Are you excited?” is the standard question people ask brides and grooms at this point, and my answer to that is: yes and no. This celebration has been put off for so long now and feels so far removed from where we were mentally in 2019 when we planned it that it’s hard to re-enter that headspace and access the excitement. It’s much easier to fall back on those default 2020 emotions of dread, pessimism and a vague sense of impending doom.

My worries are less “will the cake look good?” or “will the bridesmaids wear the right shoes with their dresses?” and much more “will this become a super-spreader event?” and “will my family get enough petrol in their cars to get to the venue after the panic-buying?” The whole thing is very pared-down, with lots of people unable to come because they’re stuck in other countries or their circumstances have changed. There will be fewer people in one room than most of them experience in a pub or restaurant these days. But the fear lingers, because everything in the world has changed since we pulled up to a small barn venue two and a half years ago and decided it would be nice to have our drinks reception on hay bales.

During summer 2020 in New York City, a viral tweet went around that said: “Wish I could’ve known this time last year that in 12 months’ time I’d be turning to my wife and saying, ‘We might have to eat the tinned rations tonight because I didn’t get N95 masks in time to visit the grocery store before curfew.’” I come back to it in my mind every time I feel down about where we are. Things were so much worse a year ago, when E and I were both holed up in a one-room flat discussing how we should get our bodies repatriated to our families in the UK if we died. To be sitting at a kitchen table 12 months later, talking about whether the colour of the confetti is exactly what we imagined, feels in equal parts wonderful and absurd.