Post-wedding, I have been scrambling around trying to re-arrange the paperwork of my life. I changed my name, so I had to change my social security card, driver’s license, car registration, car title, bank accounts (all eight of them!!!), car insurance, house insurance, medical insurance, life insurance, tax information from work, login at work, email address (seriously, I’d had the old one for eleven years, and like, who does that?), passport, and PADI certification card. I’m sure more will come up–like all of the utilities that use my eight bank accounts to get themselves paid every month–but for now I’m done.
This morning, Sparks and I opened a joint checking account. Boy howdy was that odd for me, who have never shared my banking with anyone, not in the twenty years since I opened my very first savings account. And then we got new checks and debit/ATM cards to go with the new joint account. And I get to have my paycheck auto-deposit changed.
We made reservations for our September “honeymoon” two months ago, but the airline changed our itinerary twice and after the second change, we were going to be stranded in the Detroit airport for ten hours, prior to a transatlantic flight with another connection to make at the other end. All of the flight reservations had to be cancelled and new ones made, which made me almost sick with apprehension. Fortunately, Sparks did most of the work on that one.
Post-wedding, there are all of the thank-you cards to write. Sparks has the usual handwriting of a male enginerd and no inclination for composition, so that task has devolved entirely on me–which I don’t mind. I did so like to write letters, when I was a child, and a teenager, and a college student. Somehow, though, the insidious convenience of email won me over, and though I have all those boxes of Crane stationery in my desk, the only time I write things out by hand anymore is at Christmas–and for the wedding.
It was a revelation for me that I needed to put all of his people into my address book. They’re my people now, too. And they always will be. So I need their addresses and should put them in my book. I felt, somehow, very grown up and very like my mother while I was doing it. I found myself twiddling the two rings on my left hand an awful lot.
All of this Very Serious Business had to stop somewhere, and as it turned out, it stopped at Wal-Mart last night.
25 cents. 24 crayons for 25 cents. Had to buy a box. My friends and I colored in high school, mostly as a giggly ironic thing, but even high school was more than a decade ago and I hadn’t had any crayons since. Oh my, let me tell you–crayons are joy in a box. So colorful. So sharp. Such neat rows, such a crispy un-rumpled box. Joy, joy, joy.
My first step in dealing with a new box of crayons, whether eight-count or sixty-four count, was always to put them in spectrum order, so that’s what I did. *happy sigh* There, that’s much much better.
And then I colored. And it was good.
Just not in my address book.