Monthly Archives: October 2011
Unlike some, I’ve never been the kind of girl to dream about getting married.
I didn’t fashion wedding dresses for my Barbie dolls from white toilet paper. I would roll my eyes whenever Cinderella et al. found their prince. Tiffany was the name of a badly-permed singer. What’s more, the only part of a wedding ever to appeal came with three tiers and copious amounts of sugar icing.
As an adult – a term used somewhat jocosely here – I am not quite Carrie Bradshaw.
I haven’t yet broken into an angry bushfire of hives whilst trying on wedding frocks or chiffon-based anaphylactic shock – but, who am I kidding, that’s because I’ve not so much as ventured within a ten-mile radius of a bridal shop since becoming engaged. That makes me worse than Ms. Bradshaw, huh?
So, what’s the problem?
I would love to sing from the rooftops of this blog about cake toppers and garters, but the circus of a wedding – and the attention it will bring – is daunting. I blame the parents. When they divorced, it threw a grenade into the centre of our family, leaving behind shrapnel pieces of cynicism for this ‘happy ever after’ stuff.
Like the lyrics to this song, when it comes to Napoleon: ‘I’m his girl’. For nearly ten years, he’s been my boy.
We will marry – perhaps the two of us, in jeans – and I’ll figure this out. Until then, it would be good to hear your experiences of the transition between girlfriend, next diamond-clad fiancée, to wife. Or simply your thoughts on this newly-signed Brooklyn band, Friends.
So hipster it hurts, aren’t they?
My little sister came to stay last week.
She’s starting university – reading law, for her sins – and this was our last hurrah before she becomes bound to her books. Cocktails were
downed by the dozen sipped. Gossip was shared. And she remains, without question, my one true soulmate.
The best kid in the world.
Always beautiful, the past two years have imparted a maturity, a womanly assurance – nascent and delicate, though it is still – to amplify her existing beauty.
It has taken me by surprise.
In my sister, I behold a sprog with pigtails and a droopy diaper – the little girl, forever decorated in Wotsit dust, to whom I would read bedtime stories and sing to sleep as she squeezed my hair – and yet, to the world, she is a woman. The legs have grown. The braces have come off. The shutters from my eyes, too – and look, see what we’re dealing with.
A younger, prettier Elle Macpherson.*
Sassy and intelligent, she’s the kind of girl who could wear every piece from the new Balmain diffusion line, Pierre Balmain – whose lookbook is pictured here – without risk of them wearing her.
In leaving for university, my sister reaches another milestone on the road to adulthood.
It is difficult to let her go – my instinct, as the eldest sibling, is to protect and continue to hold her close – but I couldn’t be more proud of all that she is becoming and know that the next three years will be amongst the happiest of her life.
Good luck, little lobster, I love you.
* Such are the perils of having a sister ten years younger. For the record, I’m a shorter, rounder Dawn French… ;0)