Please note: The following is to be read with a tone of melodrama. When I am upset by something silly that I can't fix, my tendency i to cheer myself up by exaggerating my perceived problems until they reach the point of melodrama.
For some reason, a lot of my friends have decided to get married in a short pace of time. Two have decided to start my wedding season with a double-whammy of weddings on the same weekend. So I've recently attended two beautiful ceremonies, complete with blushing brides and dashing grooms. This is all well and good, but weddings can be bittersweet occasions for the singles among our number. It may be simply the double dose of in-your-face, loved-up coupledom, but it's taken me a little longer than usual to bounce back to my cheery self.
I'll talk more about wedding number 2, because this is the one that's got me a little blue. Probably because after wedding number 1, I jumped in the car and drove for five hours in order to get to wedding number 2.
Photos were taken, vows were exchanged, ritual was undertaken and suddenly a married couple stood where my two single friends had been. I congratulated the bride and groom, caught up with friends, and had tea and biscuits. So far, so good.
Then the reception started. I bade farewell to the friends wha hadn't been invited (including a young man who I was hoping would be my fake-date for the evening), drank champagne, ate deep fried canapes, found my seat and introduced myself to the people on my table. Again, so far, so good.
Roast beef was eaten (never more welcome than when staying with my vegetarian grandmother), speeches were given, toasts were offered, the coversation was as light and effervescent as the champagne. Coffee and cake were served and then it was time for the bridal waltz. And that's where things started to go downhill for my mood. The new Mr and Mrs danced well (it was more of a bridal ceroc, but bridal waltz just sounds cooler), but when it came time for others to join them on the floor, I realised that I was an odd-numbered wheel. (Some would have stopped that sentence at 'odd'.) I love dancing, and would have loved to join, but had to wait until the traditional twosome two-step disintegrated into the every-man-for-himself boogie. I wanted to dance with somebody. I wanted to feel the heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanted to dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me.
I conveniently had to go to the bathroom to touch up my lipstick as the bride threw her bouquet into the waiting gaggle of girls (who, consolingly, were predominantly intelligent women in their 20s, rather than the rest of the youth group girls, as is so often the case in Christian circles). After farewelling the bride and groom, I decided to call it a night and head home to my 93-year-old grandmother, who had insisted on waiting up for me, despite the fact it was past 11pm.
As I tried to go to sleep, watching the hour hand tick past 2am, I couldn't help but think about what my life would be like if I were married. Especially if I were married to a particular man I know who's handsome, funny, intelligent, well-muscled, mature, attractive, musical, a strong Christian, athletic, has beautiful eyes. And did I mention that he's drop-dead-gorgeous? Contrasting this imagined life with my current, actual real life as a lonely loner, walking down a lonely road, alone, didn't stack up too well as the hour of the morning became yet more ridiculous. I tried to convince myself that I don't need to get married, because Jesus is enough, and God has a plan for me, and His timing is perfect, but even my alternate personality wasn't listening to me. Way to go, sista, deserting me at my time of need.
At a later stage, this post's sequel will be a more serious look at love and life as a Christian (because it's not like the internet isn't full of that already), but in the meantime, I suppose the moral of the story is:
Don't touch the coffee after 9pm!
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