The Parental Wedding

17 Aug

At 24, moving back in with your father is an interesting concept, further impounded when said father is due to embark on his second marriage.
This is causing me massive stress. Firstly, it’s not natural. Having to deliberate what shoes you will wear, and whether you should go strapless / will you clash with the bridesmaids? Is something you worry about at friends weddings. Add the fact that the groom is your dad and the whole situation turns into one dismal mess. The stress becomes unbearable; “What WILL I wear? Is strapless a bit promiscuous? Should I cover ever last available bit of flesh and take inspiration from the Sheiks? Five weeks to go, and I still don’t have a clue what I will wear on my body / on my feet / in my hair. And this is worrying me. Me, who rarely panics, often throwing everything I can see in a suitcase ten minutes before I’m due to leave for the airport for my holidays. I am mostly so relaxed I am lying down. This is much better.
The problem is further deepened by the fact that I am newly single. Boyfriend (or should I say ex boyfriend) is still invited, but I would choose gouging out and eating my own eyeball over explaining ninety-three times to various distant family members that we are not together any more. So I’m taking my friend. Which has already posed the probing questions; “is she a lesbian?”, “will she end up old and lonely?” if one more old lady tells me I’m no spring chicken and I should be thinking about my future, I. WILL. SCREAM.

At 24, I don’t think the summer of life has yet passed me by, despite a gaggle of crones and my father telling me otherwise. I think that I am still in the prime of life, and have not yet resigned myself to a future with umpteen cats, which I refer to as my children. Fear not!!

But the wedding of the father is not as simple as the wedding of the friend. I have been asked to stand up in a church and do a reading. Ugh. I have been asked point the grooms family to the right side of the church, and the brides to the left (this should be fairly easy, if they are family, to the right in an orderly fashion), and to organise the flowers in the church. But where do you stop being the child and start being the grown up offspring of the bridal party? I have so far resisted the urge to stamp my feet and demand centre – of – attention status, but it’s getting close. Relinquishing the reins of childhood in difficult situations is a challenge, but one I think I have succeeded gracefully in.

So, crones, I may be single, but I have learned a life skill. There is hope for the old dog yet.


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