Katie Maloy’s Real Wedding Blog; Her Health-Hazard Shoes
Katie, 33, is in PR, while her ex-soldier H2B, 38, is a close protection bodyguard (also known as UH: Ultimate Hero). She is sharing her wedding diary with us in the countdown to her big day on April 30, 2011.
Brides, I can barely contain my excitement: in less than 24 hours, UH will be back on English soil! This is a feeling I know well. I have been here before. In the week leading up to UH’S arrival, the whole world changes.
First, I blitz myself back into a grooming routine. UH likes to joke that when he is offshore I ‘let myself slide’. I fiercely defend this, but the truth is I do. Some days I don’t put any make-up on at all, and I allow my hair to become something like the lovechild of a Woodstock veteran and Amy Winehouse. My hundreds of impressive skincare and body-care products get about as much use as my oven, and I have even been known to knock about London with chipped nails. I am ashamed to admit this, but mostly furious at myself for creating so much work in the week leading up to UH arriving home!
Now, the hero only stipulates that there is bacon, eggs, steak and potatoes to greet him at home. I have other ideas, however. Apart from the well-stocked fridge, I hope to cut somewhat of a glamorous figure for my UH. I have waxed and exfoliated, manicured and pedicured, masked and serumed and immaculately tweezed my brows.
I am currently having an internal war with myself about what to wear to the airport tomorrow. The contenders at the moment are a tropical-print, halter-neck backless jumpsuit or a Fifties-style fitted shift dress. Now the jumpsuit is to die for, but it may be overkill for my UH, who has mostly gazed at khaki and desert hues for eight weeks. Equally the fitted dress, whilst friendlier on the iris, is quite fitted, so it may not lend itself to the all-important event of UH’S arrival home. You see, whenever UH arrives, I uncontrollably leap at him. Like, sprint and leap at him. So it essentially requires attire of the fitness persuasion; but this is not going to fly with me, even if UH encourages me to wear flat shoes as he is worried about the health and safety risk I pose to myself and those around me by running in perspex and wooden gold crossover platforms.
The first time I sprinted and leapt at the hero was the first time he picked me up. He really wasn’t expecting it, mostly because he is trained in a particular way on what to do when crazed lunatics run at him, so he wasn’t used to the sort of sprint and leap exhibited by me.
There is quite a formula to how I brew the initial strides of the sprint. I lip-gloss, gulp half a bottle of water, then cross-check for lift off. I ensure all loose items are secured. This includes earrings, bangles, magazines and, most importantly, the Blackberry, as I am torn between holding it in case UH sends a text in immigration, and putting it in my bag so it doesn’t spin off with almighty speed mid-leap and knock someone in the head.
The emotion I feel as my eyes burn holes in those double doors at terminal-one arrivals really ought to be compartmentalised and used as some kind of weapon. I usually know UH’s position and his ETA, as let’s face it, he is a man that operates at a high level; so the anxiety increases. I can usually pinpoint down to about a three-minute window exactly when I am going to clap eyes on the hero. It takes all of my might not to just bust through the doors, dodge the metal railings, lunge across the Dior fragrances and high-jump over the Jack Daniels just to get to him that bit sooner.
You can clearly see now the challenges my fitted Fifties-style dress inflicts on me. However, thinking about it, the jumpsuit is backless, meaning no bra, so maybe I need to rethink. The whole arrival needs to be down to damage limitation, which is always on the mind of UH as he gets concerned my welcome holds other passengers up and prevents them from the loving warm embraces of their own families.
So tomorrow there I will be, close to the doors, but not so close that I would scare people coming off long-haul flights and suffering from third-degree jet lag. Lip-glossed, well hydrated, cross-checked and in an outfit that totally escapes me at this precise moment, I’ll be desperately wanting to clap eyes on the hero.
From then on, the whole thing becomes a blur. As soon as I spot those perfectly formed shoulders, and see that not only is he in one piece but gloriously tanned – looking totally hero like – I fear I may explode with happiness. I am a combination of extreme gratitude that he is fit and well and feeling incredibly spoilt that I get to spend the next two weeks with him. There is also this primal thing in me that wants to grab hold of him and never let him leave again, but I push that to the back of my mind because now for a few swift seconds I am the most athletic woman on the planet, graciously but speedily dodging everything in my path to throw myself at the man. I can tell you, brides, this is the most heavenly moment; when I actually know that he is home for real. And now I need to go and try and work out what outfit is going to best serve me for this epic experience.
Till next week, brides, when I periodically exit La-La Land and get back to the job at hand: trying to work out my bridal bouquet!
Read Katie’s wedding diary week 1 here.
Read Katie’s wedding diary week 2 here.
Read Katie’s wedding diary week 3 here.
Read Katie’s wedding diary week 4 here.
Read Katie’s wedding diary week 5 here.