A Vaseline lens daydream

Maybe its in turning twenty-two, maybe its because the first of my classmates have started to get hitched this summer (and I mean properly hitched with a Daimler and a Beatles tribute band and everything) that I have started to seriously obsess about marriage.

Although we have our bad patches, A is a pretty special guy. I went through a bit of a pre-22 post-graduate crisis about two months ago in which I seriously critiqued every aspect of my life only realising that I was in fact subconsciously alienating myself from the only other human being that has seen every aspect of my personality and not shouted or run away. He is truly a fantastic man and it is highly likely that he is the only man out there that will tolerate my neurotic behavior. Indeed I am probably the only attractive woman out there that can humour his slightly underground-geek-world hobbies and not be deeply concerned about his cool party-funny-guy front with his friends. Saying no more than that, I know we work well together and can both paraphrase Star Wars eating curry and watching Peep Show till sleepy time. Pretty generic, huh? But its the chemistry that works. I can tell him he’s being an arse hole and he can tell me when I’m using emotional blackmail to manipulate him and we still call eachother every day to chat for however long or short about our days. 

Anyway, I digress. The fact of the matter is that with marriage being in the air (colleague planning her Portugese beach wedding plus schoolmates showing up in the engagement pages of the local newspaper that I write for). 22 is young enough for one’s first marriage isn’t it? You know what they say, one is for love, two is for money and three is for companionship. 

I have never been one of those girls that has planned what my babies are going to be called or how old I will be by the time I have met Mr Right and ticked all the boxes. I have never been one in the past, even as a little girl, to fantasize about every aspect of a dream wedding but overnight it seems, I have mapped the wretched occasion down to the last button-hole.

I wonder if this is the early stages of becoming the sort of woman that every man runs screaming from and who will eventually end up watching the Wedding Channel with a house that smells of cat food with hairy furniture. 

I hope not. 

But then, if A asked me to marry him a year ago, I would have had to be honest and say no. I love him but 21 is too young! In hitting 22, however, and he, ever nearing his mid-to-late twenties the notion of becoming Mrs A seems a lot less unlikely. 22 is too young still but an engagement lasts… two years?

Uh-oh! Dream sequence drifting back onto my computer screen and Pachelbels Canon wafts about my mind and I become a lump of sugary cake… Three tiers with crunchy brilliant white icing – fluffy victoria sponge with raspberry jam filling and topped with little icing roses and a little brunette bride in a pink dress and a very scared looking icing groom with what looks to be a big bruise on his face with a hammer discretely tucked behind little brunette bride’s back. 

Yes, that is one of the things that I have decided. That I want a pink dress. Now, in 6th form when I was an alternative outsider who listened to Marilyn Manson, wore ridiculous amounts of back eyeliner and whose best friend had to talk me out of dying my hair blue – I would have snorted juice out of my nose at that suggestion. No to her – it would be a humbug-style black and white striped frock with fishnets under the gown and a rock band at the reception in the New York hotel (as a 16 year old I would have had no concept of realistic finance or transportation) – instead now I dream about a rose coloured dress, local chapel and local hotel. Less than 100 guests and a ceilidh band before the dj. Wedding breakfast (careful not to put chicken on the menu as Mum always said that if you have chicken on the menu you look cheap). Two bridesmaids in a darker pink than my own and my groom, A smiling his massive smile at me (probably crying) sharing our first dance to Moon River by Henri Mancini.

16 year old me is probably vomiting in her Marilyn Manson CD graveyard in the garage right now. 

What is it, is it hormones? Nostalgia? The fact that in being 22 you are probably supposed to be living elsewhere from your parents with a job that earns you enough to start your life as a young professional. Or maybe is is because I live with M & D and still have no real responsabilities and still get book tokens from my nanny on my birthday that I have the freedom to dream this little dream. Because I love my boyfriend and because I have nothing to worry about – I am concocting a little imaginary scenario that I can waste time on.

If it is a passing fancy then I’m enjoying it even if I look inwardly on it. 22 is a nice age to be, Emma Woodhouse (my favourite Austen heroine) was 22 when she married Mr Knightley. Alan Alda married Arlene Alda when he was only 21 and Queen Elizabeth the seconds married Pheeleep at 21 also so I suppose that young marriages don’t necessarily all have to acquiesce to the “I give them six months” hushed stereotype. 

In all fairness, Emma Woodhouse was fictional and botht he Queen and Alan Alda married over 50 years ago and I am aware that times have changed. 

Listen to me! I am rambling like this is going to actually happen someday! Even I know that A has was born minus the commitment gene (which greatly involves external pressure from alien arse-up-backside genes). 

Nevetheless, its a pleasant dream to while away a few quiet hours once in a while. Perhaps soon, after my next period, my hormones will have calmed down a bit and I will return to my cynical outlooks on marriage being a legal proceeding and not about flouncing about in a meringue. I have written in previous blogs my sceptical views of church weddings and I have to confess that for my groom (intended) who is a staunch God-fearer and for my mother who harbours religious sentiments I would swallow my agnostic pride and sing a verse of “Morning has broken” with my school friends once again.

<16 year old me resurrects herself from the dead and bludgeons present me to death from behind with a Doc Martins boot>


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