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?