By early December, just after the first snow had fallen and quieted our already quiet city under a soft layer of white powder, I had ironed out all the details at Dumbarton House (no chuppah; a Justice of the Peace in lieu of clergy; a tent); decided on the music (a single violinist for the ceremony; a jazz quartet during the reception); selected a videographer (a friend of a friend of Gayle’s) and photographer (formerly of the Washington Post; black-and-white shots, predominantly). Anne, a close friend of the writer from the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times who shows up at weddings and reports on them as if they were actual news stories, had offered to “pitch” our story—two ex–New Yorkers who’d actually met on that Northeast Corridor!—for possible “coverage.” But though I knew my mother, an unapologetic addict of People magazine, would have loved a publicized wedding, the idea of having some gauzy photo of my predictably Edwardian Peter Fox shoes or Donald’s cake-and-frosting covered face next to the “story of us” made me queasy with embarrassment. “Then just make sure there’s someone for me to sexually harass at the reception,” said Anne when I told her no.

By mid-month the invitations and thank-you notes had been ordered (thermography); a calligrapher hired; rooms at the Tabard Inn for our out-of-town guests secured. By the end of December, Donald’s custom-ordered black suit (Armani) had come in and was awaiting alterations, and the hotel room for the wedding night had been reserved (a junior suite at the Hay-Adams, overlooking Lafayette Square, with a view of the White House).

By New Year’s Day, after a quiet celebration the night before at home together; a pre-midnight phone call from Adrienne (“This is going to be a great year for all of us. I just know it!”), and an hour or so of frantic late-night spying provoked by her phone call (Donald’s cell phone, date book, wallet; the pockets of two coats and three pairs of pants; the desktop documents of his computer, which he’d left on), I took stock of our situation. Our wedding plans were in good shape. Considering the fact that I’d been simmering on a low boil for weeks, ready to self-sabotage at any moment.

My to-do list had certainly shrunk, and I felt deserving of a special treat to reward my Herculean efforts.

Jealousy, envy, and obsession returned (not that they’d ever really left).

I welcomed them with open arms.

There was still a great deal to do, though.

There was the menu. And the cake. And the flowers. And the ring. And, of course, there was the little matter of the dress.