Wedding registries

Much ambivalence. Registering forces one to ask the big relationship questions, such as

1. How many plates will one need for the rest of one's life?
   
2. What do you mean you like the fat handles better?
3. Does anyone use the bowls that are smaller than the soup bowls, but bigger than the dipping bowls?
4. Will anyone buy us a Roomba?
5. Does my impatience with this process reflect negatively on my ability to withstand interrogation?

And I recognize that I'm only having to undergo approximately 1/100th of the stress of this event. Like the drone or the male lion, I shall look bold, menacing, and slowly submit to having my opinions on flatware cudgelled out of me by a band of Amazons.

Should registration reflect a consistent theme? It's hard for me to tell. I have the sneaking feeling that in the car on the way to the airport the day after the wedding, I shall turn to my blushing bride, smack my forehead, and declaim:

"D--n! We forgot to register for a long-handled citrus reamer!"

Then, gloomily, I will brood over the lost reamer like a vulture for three weeks atop the crags of Scotland. Mournfully, I will lope back to Crate & Barrel to buy said reamer. I will place it atop the counter and gaze at its placid wood surface, marveling at the injustice of its $6.95 price point. Months later, after having taken to drink in the poorhouse, I will ream out my own kidneys and die raving.