The Beginning Of The End

One is perturbed.

It’s Thursday afternoon. Ever since this week began, I feel that my presence has been announced with directions.

Wash in warm water. Pat dry. Take care to speak to this product solely about her wedding.  

The thought has crossed my mind to take notes on the amount of comments I am having on my “W” word. I could count them all up at the end of each week and drink that number in Tequila shots.

People mean well, I’m sure.

“Not long now!”

“You’re next!”

“What’s the date again?”

“Are you all ready?”

“What’s your dress like? Can I see a picture?”

This barrage of questions, nay – this gust of matrimonial flatulence – is becoming, to me, the equivalent of asking a thirteen-year-old, “How’s school?” or a pregnant woman “Do you know what it is yet?” and my personally favourite – asking an Australian “Are you from New Zealand?”.

Ask me again if i'm excited.

Ask me again if i’m excited.

In much the same way that a word is defined by its usage, a person is defined by their profession. And despite the fact I work six, sometimes seven, days a week as an administrator, burlesque performer and teacher, event coordinator, makeup artist, hair stylist, and volunteer at an animal shelter, my status as a BRIDE inexplicably overshadows all other talents and interests I may have or achievements I have met.

People mean well, I’m sure. But one can’t help but take all this attention as a sort of back-handed compliment.

Last night The Man Shape got frustrated with me because I hadn’t been paying enough attention to the tasks he had been assigned for the lead up to the wedding. For some reason, my giving him tasks to carry out (namely, “choose four songs for the wedding ceremony”) was taken as “These are the tasks we will do together”.

He lost his cool when I groaned and asked for one hour (just ONE!!!) where I didn’t have to address a wedding question.

He didn’t understand my reluctance. He’d done his day at work. He’d been to the gym, done his workout, come home and was ready to sit down and do some wedding planning. (And well done to him, to be fair).

But he didn’t realise that a bride (or indeed her immediate bridal party) doesn’t get to allocate a convenient time to think about wedding planning. Quite the opposite. It’s a constant flow of emails and tweets and private messages and phone calls and calendar pop-ups. And reminders from friends, colleagues and family members that You’re! Going! To! Be! A! Bride! Soon!

(I was aiming for a Pulitzer but apparently this is better).

Yesterday was September 11th. As a mark of respect, I decided the day would be a No-Wedding Day. A day to reflect on the less fortunate and what we as citizens of the world can do to help promote peace and an ongoing sense of multi-cultural tolerance.



I am a failure as a human being.

Nobody cared that she had worked tirelessly for the plight of Black Rhinos. But she had an inflatable penis.

Nobody cared that she had worked tirelessly for the plight of Black Rhinos. But she had an inflatable penis.

Do Grooms have to deal with this dubious rite of passage in the lead-up to their wedding? Or does “What are you wearing? Does it fit okay? What cake are you having? Have you got the shoes yet? Are you getting excited?” come only (ONLY) after the schedules, accounts and client meetings have been settled?

If so, men have definitely got it right.

I think I’m missing the bridal chromosome. Anyone got one spare? I’ll swap you for sarcasm. I’ve got that one.