I went shopping for a bridal gown yesterday. And you would think that that statement would make me eight different kinds of excited, except I'm not the bride, but merely the Maid of Bitter.
(Oh, you know I'm kidding. Mostly.)
See, here's the thing: if I hadn't turned into such a horrible sinner not worthy of owning a bit of cyber real estate, you would have known that way back at the beginning of June, my sister, the Teacher, became engaged to he of long-standing welcome in our family, the Conspiracy Theorist. And to my great pleasure, she made me her Maid of Honour. (Not Matron. No, no. Because I'm not married yet. I don't have a pretty shiny on my finger. I don't have a husband who adores me and rubs my back while I fall asleep. I don't have... class, obviously, or a functioning heart, because this is not about me, dammit!)
(I am going to die alone.)
Anyway, I'm her Maid of Honour, and really, 98, nay, 99% of the time I'm nothing but proud and happy for my sister, the bride to be.
And yesterday, when we went casually in search of The Dress, more on a recon mission than anything else, I was excited and full of girly glee. We didn't expect to do any serious shopping, but it would be lovely to wander the shops, and finger the lace, and stroke the satin, and just see what's out there, you know?
Quite unexpectedly, my mother was able to finagle a last minute appointment at a rather posh bridal salon, and the blushing bride was able to try on a couple of gowns. Though unprepared for such a development, my heart didn't break while my sister was enveloped in silk and French lace, my fingers didn't itch to claw out her eyeballs while the assistants asked her when the big day was, and the acid in my blood stayed at a reasonable, manageable level as she was strapped and corseted into ecru, and ivory and diamond white.
And then, she put on that goddamn veil.
For a full-effect experiment, the assistant put a veil on Teacher's head, and my mother's eyes welled up, and all my saliva glands suddenly decided to take a coffee break or something, and the very thing that holds my lonely, godforsaken soul together simply collapsed from the sheer emotional torture of it all. It's not the dress, people. It's the veil. It's the veil that made her the bride, it's the veil that made my mamma cry, and it's the veil that that same mamma wouldn't let me jokingly fasten to my hair because it's bad luck. Bad luck, she says! Bad luck? Very bad luck, apparently, if my non-superstitious mother hadn't taken it from my hand in the fastest Wax On Wax Off movement since Mr. Miyagi caught that fly!
Obviously, I'm not the only one feeling the pressure of my lack of impending nuptials - not if old wives tales are being carted out in bridal salon dressing rooms!
So that was my day, yesterday. Am I really that unhappy? No, not really. And I'm not jealous or bitter, either. Is my mother that crazy to have me married? A little bit, but no more than any mother who wants to see her children happily settled down. I guess we just always thought that I'd do it before my little sister did, that's all. Hell, they've been dating for eight years... you'd think I'd have been ready for this by now.
But I'm a Singleton, and there's something to be said for that! After all, do you realize just how many pretty strangers on darkened dance floors there are in this world?
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