I’m a self-admitted worrier. I get caught up in the little things far too often, much too quickly and on multiple occasions every day, find myself submerged in my thoughts, feelings and emotions. So it’s a little beyond me that in the two and a half years Andrew and I were engaged I never consciously took a break from my pink-clouded daydreams to really think about what it meant to be a wife. Sure, it was exciting to think of this new title, this evolution of girlfriend to fiance to wife, like a shiny new name plate placed on the desk of your first new job. But I never really considered what that meant for me and what that would feel like for me prior to it happening. I remembered to think of all the little details before the wedding but I really forget to do the most important thing which was taking a moment for self-reflection and the chance to ponder what this whole walking-down-the-aisle-to-be-a-wifey-poo meant. I catch myself sometimes when I write a facebook status update or a tweet that involves my expression of doing something ‘wifely.’ And I try to define what this means to me, not to anyone else but to me, the girl who regardless of her last name loves her husband unconditionally and is committed to him as much as she swore she would be on her wedding day. And I realize that being his wife is exactly what I thought it would be like. Future brides-to-be, between all the planning, and the confusion over the name change and the tough decisions between blush or champagne pink and the slightest sliver of fear at becoming a wife because it’s kind of new, and weird and different, give your non-wife self a minute or two to reflect on what it means for you to be married. That’s what this whole wedding thing is about anyways and when given context and meaning it’s ten times more special and meaningful.
And here I am. Andrew’s best friend in her new wifey poo glory. Rock on, Rhi. Rock on.