At the risk of tipping my hand, the leather is for the honeymoon. 'Nuff said.
Oh, so many things to do--book the DJ, rent the hall, tuxedo fittings, plastic surgery ("Yes, doctor, I'll take one of everything. Hmmm. Two of that one."), lose 10 pounds (don't want Lawrence to get a hernia carrying me over the threshold), write my story ("I went shopping for a microwave and found a husband!"), decide on the food (I wonder if they make deep-fried cheesecake?), and read all the manuals on how to have a happy marriage.
Whew!
And as if this match weren't perfect enough, I'll turn 45 exactly one month after you do! Ooooh. I'm marrying an Older Man.
Lawrence, you little cradle robber, you!