Tonight I rushed home, with a bottle of red safely clutched under my arm. The BF, my people, found herself, two months after the event, in possession of her & Carlos's wedding album and DVD.
The truth is, I'd seen The BF, my people, all day and evening long on the day of their nuptials. I knew she looked beautiful. Fact: The BF, my people, was the world's most beautiful bride. I didn't need wedding albums or DVDs to reaffirm this for me.
The reason for my haste and, most definitely, for the bottle of red was to witness how I will be recorded, for the rest of, like, forever in their lives. The result: a silent begging the earth to swallow me, a flush of burning shame so intense I had to stick my head in the freezer for a good half an hour. No jokes.
It was windy, right? My hair was down. My personal favourite photograph (one that would be frame worthy if it wasn't for my hair) looks a little like a bunch of pretty people and a joke, all huddled on the beach. The hair had been whipped and whirled into a bird's nest of chaos, perched lob sided on my head.
And the one where I'm smiling. Crikey! Look, I know I've got a big mouth. Apparently it's a gift. But so big that it nullifies the eyes, nose, cheeks - neck even? I look like a giant pair of lips and teeth on top of a dressed body. Kind of like that ad with the hands and body - you know, less yadda yadda, more ching ching.
And. Error of gravest proportion. I insisted on speechifying. I wrote the speech, I swear, NINE months before the wedding. It was heartfelt. I promise. But what do I look like on DVD? A jerky shaky private school snob whose s's and t's are overpronounced. God, and the emotional display of lack voice control. Em-effing-barrassing.
On the night of my peoples' wedding, my large lips bonded repeatedly with glasses of red, and canes and creme sodas, and jaegermeisters and tequilas. So much so that I had indentations on both top and bottom lip. So sure, I was tipsy. And I was, of course, a bridesmaid (and nothing makes a man drool quite like a shiny dress and a bouquet of flowers, trust me). But it's my naivety that embarrasses me the most. It was these men who complimented me - on my speech.
"Oh Pant, that speech was so heartfelt.". (Thanks.)
"My word, Pant, you were born to have an audience before you". (I know.)
"You are so confident, Pant. Can I graunch you?" (Thanks and no thanks.)
Nice compliments, right? I certainly believed them at the time. I was walking around with such a big head I looked like Ally McBeal (sure, post break-up anorexia assisted greatly in creating this look). But it sucks that they weren't true (I know, because I've seen the DVD and my Parkinson's impersonation). Damn shmucks - trying to get into my seamless knickers, they were.
Besides my being a total blot on the documentation of the celebration of Carlos and The BF, my people's love, watching that day again has filled The Pant with hope. I'm going to be like that girl from He's Just Not That Into You. Just because I've had proper Irish luck in the ways of love, I'm not giving up. The BF, my people, got what she deserves: a man who truly adores her. I'll find my man too. When The Pant becomes Up With Love.
Oh, one more thing. Those girls who are waiting for your men to propose, get used to the waiting. Despite saying to The BF, my people, "If you throw that effing thing anywhere near me, I will never effing speak to you again," she threw it - directly at the my head. And I caught the bouquet to prevent being knocked out.
So, if traditions and superstitions have any weight at all - you girls have got such a wait ahead of you that you may as well start breeding now. It's much easier to conceive before the onset of menopause.