“Ingratitude is treason to mankind.” James Thomson
Thursday, 11 March 2010
(Apropos to nothing: BBC2? Lambing Live? Lambing. Broadcast live. Quality television paid for by your license fee. Thanks!)
My friend AC is obsessed with my marriage plans. Which, I should point out, as yet only exist in her mind.
How was your weekend away? Did he PROPOSE? You're going shopping? For a WEDDING DRESS? Seriously, when are you getting married?
This seems to pop up more since I moved in with the man I'd like to call my other half (it's cute and old-fashionedand "partner"= yuck, etc) but he doesn't like it so I probably shouldn't call him that here.
AC is single and she is just so eligible - pretty, funny, independent, super-smart. Her spelling and grammar are impeccable. (I can't be the only person who finds that really sexy.) I would love to see her meet a nice guy. Not that she can't handle her batchelorette status, just that it's nice to have someone to be nice to you, you know? (If you think of anyone, email a photo. Of his face. Don't be rude.)
Somehow the phrase the 50-year-old bride has become a thing we say to make each other laugh.I said something like "Every girl dreams of being a 50-year-old bride" as in, don't buy your hat yet, no one is asking me. And also, as in, I think maybe strapless is no longer an option.
Now, no offense to anyone who actually was or will be a 50-year-old bride (it could still be me). Nothing at all wrong with that. At 49, it could be a phrase positively full of gleeful anticipation. I'm 42, so it indicates a theoretical event in eight years' time. And it's mainly funny because of the word bride. Who is a bride anymore who is over the age of 30? It's kind of a creepy word. It makes me think of Frankenstein's monster and nuns and human sacrifice. And it's cheerful and spotless and hysterical and youth-obsessed and it means virgin for god's sake.
I'm not that fussed about getting married. I was married once - as a 23-year-old bride - and didn't like it very much and went on to become a 25-year-old divorcee. Then in my mid to late thirties I began seeing men as potential husbands, but I think what I really wanted was someone to lean on so I didn't have to do every damn thing myself. A boyfriend and a diamond would have been nice, never mind the nuptials. Now I have a boyfriend and I would never turn down a diamond - isn't that a pretty basic rule of thumb? never turn down a diamond? - but I am not in a rush is what I'm saying.
(Fyi, I am learning so much about myself here. I'm sexist andageist - my favourite combination of offensive qualities. And I have reduced the future of my fabulously happy relationship to "a boyfriend" and a diamond. Hi honey. I love you. x)
So. That was all backstory and fannying around. Cracking on. After the poop incident it became obvious that I have too many clothes (yes, even after the emergency disposal exercise) and I need to do some decluttering, so I texted her to ask if she could help. ("How about you come over at short notice on your day off and help me complete a menial task. Oh, you're working? What I meant is that if you could please do this with me at a time of your choosing I will give you alcohol. And I will rope in someone else as well to take the pressure off.")
Me: Are you at work today? AC: Sadly, yes. Would much rather be sitting outside Annie's [a local restaurant] with eggs benedict, a glass of champagne and YOU! Me: Well we'll have to earmark another day for that then. And I need some wardrobe help and was hoping I could entice you and [mutual friend] SG with drink. AC: Well you know we have expensive tastes in the alcohol dept nowadays. And I don't think SG gets out of bed for anything less than a roast chicken dinner but you could always try. Is it about your wedding dress? Me: You have a one track mind. Anyway, I already know what I am wearing for the wedding: winceyette and a cardigan. And slippers. AC: Amazing! That's exactly what I'll be wearing. One of us will have to change. Me: If I don't wear my specs I won't notice.