I’m getting married next year. And so continues my theme of launching myself into areas of life that had previously remained a mystery to me. I am a housewife, I am a mum, I am…a bride to be, by far the sparkliest and most vaccuous of all my new incarnations.
I spend my wedding planning hours veering wildly from blind panic about the cost (it seems almost impossible to get married for less than ten grand) and pure, girly joy, not at the dress, the cake or the flowers, but at the idea of being married, which seems to me to be a very nice state indeed, so long as I am married to my husband to be of course, and not just married. To, like, someone else. The wedding itself, really, is neither here nor there. And much as I know this, I can still feel myself being sucked in by some kind of greater Bridezilla force, that tells me I can’t possibly not have a 3 course meal, and sugared almonds are a legal requirement, and I must try my hardest to look as much like a giant snowflake as possible.
Of course, I’m going to resist it all and do what I want. I just need to buy another Brides magazine to tell me what that is.