Within but two days, Wedding Season 2007/ 08 will officially be closed.
And I will roll over in some communal hungover room in some one-chico Eastern Cape town and grin manically. Before I recall what my wedding attendance involved the night before.
[Oh please please please can I still be in a relationship, loved by the bride and groom, have not flashed too many bits, be allowed back to that venue for future events, that the photos are good to me!!...but not TOO good like that ONE wedding two years ago... And have woken up in the right house! Come on, karma, you owe me!]
This will also be my first Bridesmaided wedding. And what a bluddy stress. If for no other reason, than occasionally phoning the bride and realising she is one sidestep away from losing the plot.
Last night I passed on advice I learnt from my dad many many moons back – Your wedding is never your own, it belongs to the mother or grandmother of the bride.
In my friend’s case, it might also be part-owned by one of the bridesmaids. So shut up, nod, smile, and wait it out till you can open gifts and finish off the champagne & cake with your brand spanking new hubby. (I added that spanking part. Not my dad).
And do not even get me started on finding fkcing gold shoes in this town. Ones that do not look like they have been submerged in kitch. And that can work on a beach, in eternal photos, and finally at a reception – AND that I will be willing to wear again! HA! Apparently the P.E. groom is so sick of all the ridiculously minor detail he is declaring he is going barefoot.
Meanwhile, I just know there is no way this February body of mine is fitting into that early-December fitted dress. I am slightly panicking & a mantra of “Bulge Bulge Bulge Zip-split” has been on repeat in my head for a few days now.
My mother has categorically stated that I must stop eating from yesterday until the wedding dinner. Seriously.
“What are you doing?”
“Uhh, eating dinner”
“Stop that! That’s not going to help you fit into that dress!”
“But then I will collapse from hunger.”
“That’s ok. Who cares about that. It’s not being able to fit into the dress that is not ok! If you need anything, make it black coffee. ONLY!”.
“Thanks Mom. It’s great to see you’ve worked on that motherly love and concern for your children’s health thing.”
“I’m not listening to you till you stop eating”.
Seriously. Menopause makes women weird.
My dad thought he would be of better help. Although, he also recommended no more food intake for three days. It was his advice that has made me really question this reputation of his of being so logical and a man greatly respected for his intelligence.
“You must just continuously spit”
“I must do WHAT?”
“No really. It’s what all the boxers do to lose weight before a weigh-in. They lose water that way.”
“By continuous spitting?”
“How long before do I need to start this lady-like practice?”
“About six hours before”
“So I must just start spitting around about the time some woman is trying to wash and do up my hair, all the way through the make up, and photos. Can I at least stop by the time the ceremony starts? I don’t think her mom will take to us walking down the aisle with me spitting at the guests.”
“Well, you’ll be in the dress by then”.
“Oh god. Someone open some wine. Right now. Please”.
Which causes my mom to shout up that “NO! That will not help with weight loss!!” while my dad looks mighty chuffed with his diverse knowledge and incredible advice.
The boyf has agreed they are mad. ”You guys speak about the strangest stuff... Ummm….but… well…seriously, if you want to lose weight, do what I used to do before a weigh-in… Spend an hour running in the sun in a heavy tracksuit”.
“Well, why don’t I just wear heavy pyjamas with lots of blankets tonight and sweat then?”
“Cause you’ll become dehydrated!”
This time tomorrow I can be spotted doing laps around a beach town sweating through polyester and takkis.
Oh how I welcome the end of this maddest of all seasons!