Alison Berkley Margo: The Princess’s Palate

I think I have the post-wedding blues.

I knew this was going to happen. Throughout all the planning, everyone kept telling me I was the mellowest bride on the planet. They kept saying how relaxed I was. How I wasn’t too demanding. I was flexible. I was open. I let the chips fall. I let other people make decisions.

Now I’m afraid my carriage has turned into a pumpkin.

Come to think of it, I’ve turned into a pumpkin, too.

That is to say, I’ve fallen off the workout wagon, jumped off the fitness train and hit the wall of oh-who-cares-what-difference-does-it-make and sure, I’ll have another beer and it’s been a while since I’ve had onion rings, why the hell not? Just ask the waitress for some ranch to go with that.

So instead of being your typical Bridezilla, barking orders at everyone on my Bluetooth headset and walking around with a clipboard and bullhorn and going on a 21-day master cleanse, I was super-laid-back – until now. Now that it’s all over, I’m like the Apocalyptic Postal Bride who lives in a swamp and only comes out at night.

I’m like, totally depressed.

I haven’t seen the UPS guy in weeks. There are no more packages being delivered to our doorstep. No more phone calls or pretty cards with personal checks coming in the mail.

No more weekly facials or dress fittings or hair appointments or shoe shopping. No more countdown calendar or workout routine graph or diet motivator. No more fancy jewelry or party planning or a schedule packed with meetings and phone calls. No more having people work for me. I loved having a staff, while it lasted.

My CPA Super Steve said it’s normal to feel that way after a big event. He does these big ski expeditions all over the world.

“I always feel depressed after I get back from a big trip,” he said. “When you put all your time and energy into planning something and then it’s over, it’s normal to feel that way.”

Super Steve always busts out with sage advice at the most random times, usually after spending 10 or so minutes making fun of me. “I still can’t believe you found someone to marry you,” he’ll say.

No more honeymoon travel plans or bottles of champagne or cake or fancy meals. No more photographers’ flashbulbs or New York Times reporters calling for an interview or a follow-up question. No more media attention, no more national exposure.

Exposure is an interesting word, though. One of the things I didn’t expect with the whole wedding thing is how much of yourself you expose.

You expose your whole entire life, really. That includes your father’s embarrassing speech the night before the wedding when he decides to roast all of your friends you’ve ever known in your whole life, telling stories that date back to 1983 and including people who aren’t even at the wedding.

You listen to your dad going, “Ali has this friend Bonnie, right? Well, Bonnie, she isn’t here because she has a head injury, but this one time, Ali and Bonnie came with us on a family trip to Nantucket when they were in junior high school and …”

Ten minutes later he’s still talking about Bonnie and then changes subjects and starts talking about Leah, your friend you see maybe once a year but have known since eighth grade, and he goes, “Leah’s here! Hi Leah! So Leah is a big-time lawyer in New York City and she’s a real cougaress.”

And you’re sitting there going, “What’s a cougaress?” and hoping your feminist friends don’t start throwing things at him.

Then your mother, who weighs 80 pounds and has had more than four sips of vodka starts yelling, “Someone! Get the microphone away from him!”

And your friend Sunshine who was raised by hippies and is dressed in a skin-tight minidress and fishnet stockings decides to rip the microphone out of your father’s still trembling hands and show everyone a slideshow she made. It has a segment called “In Loving Memory” featuring photos of your Uncle Marc, who isn’t dead and happens to be sitting at the next table.

That same friend decides to demonstrate her “Flying Yoga” technique after dinner and is on the floor of the banquet room at the Jerome twirling people over her head on her feet like some kind of demented circus act.

Then she decides to get horrifically drunk at your wedding so she can spill an entire pint of beer on you, make an embarrassing toast and puke in the kitchen at the Sky Hotel (sorry, Sky Hotel, you guys are awesome) and is not so sunny in the end.

You open yourself up in other ways, too. Like any time you host a party, you put yourself out there by inviting people who you think are so important to you and then they don’t bother to show up.

“I have bad news Ali,” my friend Eric says over the phone the day before the wedding. “Herbie is really sick.”

“Your dog, Herbie,” I say. “The bulldog?” The bulldog that has pretty much been sick since the day he was born and has never been able to breathe properly on account of his face being so smashed in? That Herbie?

A few weeks later: “So, I have to know. How’s Herbie doing?” I ask Eric.

“Oh, he’s fine now.”

“That dog is going to outlive us all,” I say, crossing Eric off my thank you note list.

The one thing I do get out of all this, of course, is my amazing husband. The good news is, he can deal with it. He can deal with me, too. Thank God I don’t mind exposing myself to him, until death do us part.