The Blues

Before Bridezilla …

On January 25, 2011, in Family, iPartner, Life, by Rosie

There was Brideshead Revisited.

Sixteen years ago today, twas our wedding eve. We married on Stralia Day, 1995 and I thought I was the coolest, most knowledgeable, most hilarious bride in the entire universe. Bridezilla was not the name of my particular wedding day monster. I was Brideshead Revisited.

Why was I a brideshead, you ask?

Well, there are a few reasons. One of the most bizarre ones is that I wasn’t a yuge make up wearing back in my twenties, so when I waltzed down the tiny aisle with my father resplendent of face and figure, Mac (Groomsationista) didn’t really recognize me due to my facial mask.

I blame the foundation. I don’t think I’d ever really worn it when playing cricket. Or mascara, because who really needs that when you’re kicking a drop punt through the goal from 20 metres out? And lipstick? Well, it’s really useful for leaving hearts or murderous threats on mirrors in movies, but it’s very hard to apply. It always makes me feel like I’m a fish (called Wanda? I wanda why?)

Also? I don’t think I ever wanted a veil due to the sheer volume of my hair. I felt that it might look a little like a sprig of blossom in a sea of the wooliest, boofiest mop-style. Alas, I was talked into it (Al, I think that was you, or perhaps mother?) and on the day — in fact, in the very first moment that I revealed my cake o’ face to Groomsationista in a sensual defrocking of the prize he was getting — the white lacy thing fell off.

Bridesheads traditionally don’t spend a great deal of time selecting their dress o’ divine, their accompanying flower arrangements, their shoes, their … anything. They want to just rock up on the day, listen to some great music and the sound of their own voice making the funniest speech, eat something really yum, chat to a few peeps, dance a bit, order a cheese platter for an after reception glass of red wine, then retire as quickly as possible to remove the gunk off their face.

It’s true that I chose the Brideshead Frock in about 40 minutes. It fitted the first time, thankfully, although the initial dress I pulled off the rack and said ‘this one is nice. It’ll do, ffs’ was declared a ‘deb dress’ by Alli and Chicken.

Okay, so I wanted to get married in a dress that a 16 YO gal might don for the night she walks down some steps of the town hall on the arm of this guy in her class, only really wanting to go to the afterparty, where she gets shitfaced and vomits in the azaleas. Sounds like a great day to me, why not go for that frock.

What’s not true is that this Brideshead tried a backless dress on the wrong way round, thus having the mad dip that was supposed to be the back split her massive cleavage when she walked out of the changing room door for an opinion from sister and mother. Now that would be TOO stupid.

Yep, I still thought I was the most chic, popular, spectacular, wondrous bride to ever walk an aisle. I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing about the ways and workings of a long-term relationship and now, 16 years in, I’m only a little more savvy due to making mistakes, making amends and learning. It’s such a ongoing process, this commitment thingy, a definite journey (although that term is overused and quite cliche).

But you need resilience, good walking shoes, a sense of humour, a dab of humility, a lot of empathy, a ton of patience, great skillz in the kitchen, demonic methods of domestication, determination in the boudoir, an understanding of hormones, an easy-to-read grumpy face (and mind), an allen key (not a metaphor for penis), a love of indecision, a shovel-full of determination, a partridge in a pear tree of strength.

Luckily, Mac has all these qualities, and his allen key is really handy for bike seats. Thanks for 16 years of roller coastering, my friend. You really are fantastic in so many ways.

PS: Thank you to the person who recently purchased the three Fangirls books. Such a lovely way to start the new year, knowing that they might be read and (hopefully) enjoyed.