It had never been of much concern to me that I had reached my mid-thirties and had yet to make that solemn stroll down the aisle. I had always consoled myself with the sensibility that, should I desire a party, I would throw one! If I felt like donning a beautiful dress, I would simply buy one, and I would never need to sign a contract to prove my love to anybody! How rigid and pressurised the whole process of marriage. Diamonds? I should get a great thrill from picking out my own ring and paying for it myself should I want one. I didn't need a man for such things! My man and and I would need nothing more than frolicking freely together in our dirty Sunday bests, sharing cheap and cheesy picnics on cliff tops and having the confidence to believe the 'I love you's' when we chose to share them. Simple.
When my darling Mum, however, voiced her own genuine disappointment about a month before she died, sighing to some invisible soul outside her bedroom window that, 'every mother dreams of seeing their daughter in a wedding dress you know', I did feel something of a failure for an entire evening and was shocked by her never-mentioned-before revelation.
Once home, I snivelled quietly into the comforting fur of my dear dog, Johnson, whilst watching When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time. I found myself asking whether perhaps I needed to lower my standards (as Sally surely had done?) and try to fall for a short guy with fuzzy hair, a beard and white sneakers? Why indeed could I not see past his gamely yet repetitive and irritating mispronunciation of 'peeeeeken piiiyy' the way Sally had done? Why should a man's shoes matter? Searching my own relationship history I began to worry that somewhere along the line, I had shot a potential groom in both feet and balls with a gun of unfair discrimination and word had somehow got out. But no! Hang on! My first love had worn white sneakers for heaven's sake and our ridiculous teenage fumblings took place in the back of his Ford Cortina. My next love came many years later in the form of a closet heroin addict (yes really. I naively thought he was just a bit under the weather for much of the time); closely followed by a 4.5 year relationship with a 40 year-old closet gay man who was accompanied by a pair of demonic sons.
Mulling it all over that night, it seemed to me that I had been more than accommodating over the years and rather less discriminatory than perhaps I should have been! Snivelling onwards into the early hours of the morning and many slurpings of wine later, realisation depressingly dawned that actually, nobody with white sneakers and fuzzy hair had lowered their standards enough to rescue me on some lonely New Year's Eve.... or any other night of the year for that matter!
I had been proposed to once. I was 18 and the said boyfriend was 12 years older than me, with a mental age of a good 12 years younger. We'd been dating for a fortnight when he drunkenly popped the question, verified the next day at work with a dozen red roses and a card that read 'I meant it'. Even at that tender age, head and heart filled with the hopes and dreams of romance, I somehow found the wisdom to avoid answering the question. Luckily for me he didn't think to seek the answer, and two months later our 'romance' ground to a lucky halt. The man was a raving alcoholic lunatic it turns out with a penchant for hair pulling and a jealousy to rival that of a castrated Yorkshire Terrier having to accept that a fully-endowed Great Dane had just stolen Best in Show.
That evening, I managed a half-smile to the tune of self pity, fondly remembering that famous saying 'always the bridesemaid, never the bride', when suddenly it hit me like a tacky wedding limo that I had never actually been a bridesmaid either! Good Lord! Was I worthy of never stepping down the aisle in either capacity? Was there no man or dear friend out there who wanted ME beside them, behind them or in front of them at the altar? It seemed not. Heavy-hearted I slunk off to bed with Johnson, ready to face an office full of attached women at 9am.
I was a secretary at the time. Something I just tripped over on my way out of the City; not unlike any other job I'd found before really. I had never known what career path to follow - something else I just couldn't settle down to. So you can imagine that it's with a little wonder, a large pinch of irony and a handful of amusement that I find myself doing, just 6 months later, a job that I had never once planned to do. I find I have become a Wedding Coordinator! I'm really not sure how it happened, but the whole thing seemed to fall spontaneously at my feet like a gentle waft of just-thrown confetti.
I'm never the bridesmaid, and I'm never the bride. But I do find myself hovering regularly near that elusive aisle, smirking at the meringues and the self-importance of oversized hats; whincing at the overweight brides oozing up, over and out of their groaning strapless bodices. Week after week I try very hard to magic the conveyor belt away with my pristine white cloths, assuring each couple that they are indeed doing something very special and different with their choice of colour red, matching first dance to Chris de Burgh and clashing cocktails of Bucks Fizz. Who knows for how long this pantomime (she's BEHIND YOU!) will keep me amused, but Mum, for now, wherever you are, I assure you that although I may not be the one out front in the dress, I am the one on the sidelines having all the real fun. Promise....
When my darling Mum, however, voiced her own genuine disappointment about a month before she died, sighing to some invisible soul outside her bedroom window that, 'every mother dreams of seeing their daughter in a wedding dress you know', I did feel something of a failure for an entire evening and was shocked by her never-mentioned-before revelation.
Once home, I snivelled quietly into the comforting fur of my dear dog, Johnson, whilst watching When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time. I found myself asking whether perhaps I needed to lower my standards (as Sally surely had done?) and try to fall for a short guy with fuzzy hair, a beard and white sneakers? Why indeed could I not see past his gamely yet repetitive and irritating mispronunciation of 'peeeeeken piiiyy' the way Sally had done? Why should a man's shoes matter? Searching my own relationship history I began to worry that somewhere along the line, I had shot a potential groom in both feet and balls with a gun of unfair discrimination and word had somehow got out. But no! Hang on! My first love had worn white sneakers for heaven's sake and our ridiculous teenage fumblings took place in the back of his Ford Cortina. My next love came many years later in the form of a closet heroin addict (yes really. I naively thought he was just a bit under the weather for much of the time); closely followed by a 4.5 year relationship with a 40 year-old closet gay man who was accompanied by a pair of demonic sons.
Mulling it all over that night, it seemed to me that I had been more than accommodating over the years and rather less discriminatory than perhaps I should have been! Snivelling onwards into the early hours of the morning and many slurpings of wine later, realisation depressingly dawned that actually, nobody with white sneakers and fuzzy hair had lowered their standards enough to rescue me on some lonely New Year's Eve.... or any other night of the year for that matter!
I had been proposed to once. I was 18 and the said boyfriend was 12 years older than me, with a mental age of a good 12 years younger. We'd been dating for a fortnight when he drunkenly popped the question, verified the next day at work with a dozen red roses and a card that read 'I meant it'. Even at that tender age, head and heart filled with the hopes and dreams of romance, I somehow found the wisdom to avoid answering the question. Luckily for me he didn't think to seek the answer, and two months later our 'romance' ground to a lucky halt. The man was a raving alcoholic lunatic it turns out with a penchant for hair pulling and a jealousy to rival that of a castrated Yorkshire Terrier having to accept that a fully-endowed Great Dane had just stolen Best in Show.
That evening, I managed a half-smile to the tune of self pity, fondly remembering that famous saying 'always the bridesemaid, never the bride', when suddenly it hit me like a tacky wedding limo that I had never actually been a bridesmaid either! Good Lord! Was I worthy of never stepping down the aisle in either capacity? Was there no man or dear friend out there who wanted ME beside them, behind them or in front of them at the altar? It seemed not. Heavy-hearted I slunk off to bed with Johnson, ready to face an office full of attached women at 9am.
I was a secretary at the time. Something I just tripped over on my way out of the City; not unlike any other job I'd found before really. I had never known what career path to follow - something else I just couldn't settle down to. So you can imagine that it's with a little wonder, a large pinch of irony and a handful of amusement that I find myself doing, just 6 months later, a job that I had never once planned to do. I find I have become a Wedding Coordinator! I'm really not sure how it happened, but the whole thing seemed to fall spontaneously at my feet like a gentle waft of just-thrown confetti.
I'm never the bridesmaid, and I'm never the bride. But I do find myself hovering regularly near that elusive aisle, smirking at the meringues and the self-importance of oversized hats; whincing at the overweight brides oozing up, over and out of their groaning strapless bodices. Week after week I try very hard to magic the conveyor belt away with my pristine white cloths, assuring each couple that they are indeed doing something very special and different with their choice of colour red, matching first dance to Chris de Burgh and clashing cocktails of Bucks Fizz. Who knows for how long this pantomime (she's BEHIND YOU!) will keep me amused, but Mum, for now, wherever you are, I assure you that although I may not be the one out front in the dress, I am the one on the sidelines having all the real fun. Promise....
3 comments:
you have to keep doing this... please keep me updated on when your next one's out - even my boyfriend thinks it's great!!
Thank you very much Trix (do I know you?) I definitely need to find more time - it's difficult with so many weddings to organise LOL!
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