The RSVPs are in (well, except for two guests who I’ve already punished by unfriending on Facebook), the menu is decided upon, the wine has been chosen and – by some strange miracle – I haven’t yet murdered an in-law or demoted a bridesmaid. Good going!

Except there’s still this little thing called The First Dance. And to be honest, it’s not such a little thing at all. You see, I’m petrified. Terrified. As in, let’s-rather-call-off-this-whole-thing scared. I don’t do dancing in public. For me, it’s up there with letting off gas in public, or getting changed in public, or going out with no makeup on. (All involve completely unnecessary amounts of humiliation.)

When it comes to dancing, try as hard as I may, I look as though my limbs are trying to escape from one another, wiggling and flapping in opposite directions as though they’re each moving to completely different songs – one leg to reggae, another leg to rock, an arm to trance and the other to punk. I’m that idiot a good second or so behind the beat.

So, the idea of dancing, in public, while everyone is watching me (expecting some sort of fandangled tango or – God forbid – a flash mob featuring the bridal party), is my idea of utter torture. Rather leave me in a room with flesh-eating spiders. Or Honey Boo Boo. Or her mom.

Even worse, somehow this First Dance is supposed to signify the profound connection between you and your partner, prophesying the strength of your relationship and the likelihood that your marriage will last (or have any sexual compatibility at all). I have a recurring nightmare in which the tannies at my wedding are all huddled in a corner on the edge of the dance floor (clinging to their Zimmer frames and guzzling down my wine), sharing judgemental whispers like, “Feet all over the place” and “She won’t follow his lead. Mark my words, this marriage is doomed”.

But what about my fiancé, I hear you ask? Isn’t he a good dancer? Isn’t he excited to share this romantic moment with you? Well, let me see… nope. It’s one of the things we have in common. We don’t have a song that’s ‘ours’. We’ve never gone out dancing together. We’ve never swayed together. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him tap his feet. That move-your-body-around-wildly-without-caring-how-stupid-you-look gene just isn’t in us. Either of us. (God help our poor children).

So, in a moment of despair, I typed ‘First Dance’ into Google. Yes, I was looking for someone to blame for inventing this damn idea. And yes, I was hoping it was one of those meaningless traditions that we could claim as passé and stuffy and ‘so not us’ and throw out of the window entirely. “No First Dance? How very progressive. Totally modern; so very liberal,” I was hoping our friends would say.

But then I stumbled upon a small fact that has, quite frankly, transformed my thinking. It’s tugging at my ego and edging me (very slowly and uncoordinatedly) towards that idea that a foot tap or two on the dance floor might not be so bad.

You see, way back when dancing was practically taught at school, alongside English and Maths (well, instead of English and Maths for the girls), the First Dance was reserved for the guests of honour. The most important people at the party. The royalty (if you were lucky to have any around) or the elite or the very posh, very rich It-people of the soirée. Basically, you didn’t dare presume you could grace the dance floor with your Macarena moves and bizarre robot dance before the most important people had formally ‘opened’ it with a First Dance.

But here’s the thing: they didn’t open the dance floor because they were the best dancers or because they were the most elegant or the most coordinated. They opened the dance floor because they mattered the most. Because they were the people everyone else had come to see.

The fact is, Etienne and I get to open the dance floor not because we’re impressive or talented or, frankly, worth watching. (I mean, c’mon, I still take a good five minutes to work out which foot is left, and which is right.) We get to open it because it’s our wedding. Because it’s about us – and our relationship – and sharing that with the people we love.

So, no matter how wildly my arms flap around, or how many times Etienne trips over my feet or how painfully I fall out of rhythm, this is our party – and no one gets to act like royalty on our big day except us. Even if it does mean making complete fools of ourselves.