a fit of the housewifes

My baby brother is getting married in NINE DAYS. My own wedding is in 135, which is both way too far away and so close I feel the organ music breathing down my neck. I spend a lot of time thinking about being married (you would, too) and from where I'm standing today, it'll be well well well worth the fuss, if only for the logistical ease of having a permanent claim to and a spot in the bed beside S. Plus, I have been infected with what I describe as a fit of the housewifes. I am craving badly a blank slate on which to create and organize a home, daydreaming about doing S's laundry, thinking long and hard about cooking, cleaning, and managing joint checking accounts. These longings must not be misinterpreted as promises that I'll magically morph into a graceful domestic goddess the instant we're home from the honeymoon, because I probably won't. I definitely will never be legitimately graceful about this. But it's meaningful to me that I'm having these desires and that I can imagine finding myself there--married--and capable of holding up my half of the bargain. Means I'm readier than I thought I'd be.