The Final Countdown

I'm getting married in 50 days.

There is no better way to start this Blog - and believe me, I have tried. The magazines, married friends, my parents have all warned me about the tricky final stages: "It'll go really fast."

In fact, my wedding planning time has gone whizzing by faster than Sonic the Hedgehog, on Speed, desperate for the toilet, while riding The Flash's special time-paradox-causing treadmill. SHUT UP I'M NOT EXAGGERATING.

The big ringer came a week ago when a client at work was booking in an appointment. My boss offered her the 20th February and I suddenly squealed like a moron, "Woah, that's two months before I get married!!!" My colleagues looked at me as if I couldn't do simple maths, and the customer looked confused before wishing me congratulations, and then I felt like the biggest boast in the world - I hadn't meant to draw attention to myself. It just fired out of me like errant post-nacho gas. In fact, maybe I'd rather have just cut a loud wet one right on the shop floor, although I probably would have sighed loudly afterwards and exclaimed "THANK GOD!" from sheer relief which is the sort of weird and depraved behaviour that would get you fired on the spot. 

Let's just say I'd rather not have done either of those things.

Let me explain the significance of the two-month mark. 

Think of it as a kind of eternal Christmas Eve. Even if you're the most anal retentive Christmas planner, the kind that has all of the gifts by July, there are still things to do on Christmas Eve. Even if you've wrapped all of the presents and egged all the nog by 10AM, there might still be things you want to do. Say you want to bake cookies with the family, watch one of the many flavours of Christmas Carol*, head to midnight mass, hand-deliver a card, or even just spend a little bit of down time with your other half. Try as you might, you'll never get it all done in the short amount of time you have left. Why? Because you might be able to control your universe, but you don't control the whole universe.

Traffic, weather, bees, health, bad luck, oil slicks, giant apes, other people, the economy. That's just a tiny selection of things that no individual can control, and all it takes is just one of them to ruin someone's plans. OK, you get the point.

So what do you do at 11PM on Christmas Eve when there's no cookies, the DVD player doesn't work, and you have to leave right now to get to Mass because you have to go the long way around due to a giant ape pouring oil upon some bees on the motorway? 

You have to decide. Decide which of those things is the most important, AND the most accessible. If you have the means to make cookies but it's going to take you until 1AM and cause a rotten Christmas Day, don't make the cookies. Come up with a compromise, or better yet just kiss the thing goodbye. And don't beat yourself up about it.

So here at <two months, I am bidding farewell to a few things I had planned for the Wedding day that I just could not do: ambitiously big projects that would have been AMAZING, but meant I would have achieved nothing else. And I'm not just talking about on the day - I mean, I would have spent too much free time on them, missing time to catch up with friends, or time to just sit on the sofa and watch an episode of Gavin and Stacey that I've seen 600 times. Because sometimes that's just what needs to be done.

It means I also have a little time to do a bit of thinking - those of you with diabetes may want to skip this part of the Blog, because I'm about to get syrupy. If it all gets too much, I can think about all of the nice stuff that's happened in my planning so far. That time a project I was nervous about turned out really well. My favourite client squealing with joy when he heard I was getting married. My smart phone-phobic Dad texting me to say he'd booked the pre-Wedding week off. Mum and I making a dress shop owner (and her assistant) cry. My boss opening her invitation. Seeing my brother and future brother-in-law getting excited about the possibility of being (slightly) related.

Yes, I'm scared. But I'm scared about the things that are out of my reach, like weather and sasquatches, not about my relationships or things I've left too late. Plus, a little fear can't hurt - providing it doesn't lead to anger, hate, suffering, or disappointing prequels. I'll be trying to enjoy this fleeting time while it lasts, and I hope you lot will enjoy it with me too.

Here Comes the Pride

It's time to address a weighty problem.

Recently, I've been trimming the fat off the meats I eat, grilling foods and counting calories, all in the name of...well, what really??

When I started this Blog, I also started a weight-loss regime, and I detailed my exploits under posts named "The Wide Bride". And last week, I complained that a lot of people have been mentioning my weight and how it will affect the way I look on my wedding day.

If I'm trimming the superfluous stuff off of the things I eat, maybe I should stop trimming down the things I say to make them more digestible.

Right now, I am very overweight - according to both my Doctor, and the bathroom scales, who we will call 'mutual observers'. I have always been on the bigger side of slim: the smallest I have ever been was during my College years, where I ate less, practised Karate and went to the Gym three times a week. I wasn't always happy during that period - what 16 year old is? - but I had a pretty good time, good friends and a mostly positive attitude.

I'm going to be honest - I am about four stone heavier now than I was at College. I still have a positive attitude, I'm more adjusted, I have excellent friends, a healthy social calendar, a loving family and I'm very comfortably in love. 

If you plotted the last seven years on a graph, the only line going downwards would be my weight. See?

Not pictured: Level of Romantic Conquests (plummeted after age 17; didn't recover until Present Day)

My point is: why is this a problem? The short answer is "it's not" - being overweight hasn't stopped me scoring a great job, a gorgeous husband-to-be, and made me a possibly better daughter, sister and friend.

All of the "watch your weight" comments have come from people who don't know me: clients at work, people from church, random strangers. They don't know that I'm happier now than I was when I was slimmer. They see a fat person, and then they assume that I follow all of the common tropes of a fat person: that I eat because I'm unhappy, that my home life must be difficult, that my parents must be overweight too.

I admit, there are things I would like to change about myself: I don't like certain parts of myself, but I'm aware that losing weight won't remedy that: I need to change my attitude. When I was 16, I never liked my figure. When I look back at photographs, I realise that there wasn't really anything to dislike. 

If you're reading this, and you agree with me, there might have been times where you decided to lose weight. Was it for the right reasons? 

• My friends make fat jokes and I don't want to be the butt of them
• I feel uncomfortable in my own skin
• I can't wear the clothes I like
• Everyday activities cause me discomfort
• I want to be able to keep up with my kids
• I cause my family embarrassment
• My partner will find me unattractive

These are all reasons I have used to justify weight loss in the past. Clearly, not all of them are healthy.

Healthy is a good word - if you're healthy in body and mind, that's universally a good thing. I know overweight people who are happy, successful, dress gorgeously and don't spout negative body talk, and I know slim people that are exactly the same. Jealousy and negativity don't come in sizes.

I acknowledge that I have a choice - I know that eating well and exercising make me feel good, but going a day without sit-ups or having the odd burger doesn't make me feel bad.

I'm going to make a promise to you all - I promise that all of the negative talk, all the "Wide Bride" jokes stop here, because I can't complain about being judged if I'm judging myself. In turn, my dear readers, please promise me that you won't judge anyone with the harsh terms I have used. While it's easy to remember not to make a racist or sexist joke, for some reason, overweight people are acceptable targets, and that isn't fair. Please think and think again the next time you consider making a fat joke.

I look forward to you seeing me in my dress! It's going to be awesome - whatever shape I am underneath. 

The Parade of Ugly and Stupid

There’s a quote from the brilliant John Waters film Hairspray (the recent remake) that can be re-tooled to fit any everyday situation, but that I have kept close my heart during these crazy-hazy-wedding-planning days:

“You two better brace yourselves for a whole lotta ugly comin' at you from a neverending parade of stupid.”

Within our wedding party, we are surrounded by amazing people who are super-cool and powerful, like The Avengers, but marriage is such a hot topic and everyone else has opinions. Throbbing, barely contained opinions. And just as it is with other hot topics, some people will step beyond the boundaries of taste and common decency to share theirs.

I know that you know, upstanding moral citizen that you are, just how to speak to someone who is getting married. Just so this isn’t a wasted exercise, I’d like to share with you some experiences I and other brides I've chatted to have had.

“Don’t invite any children to your wedding!”

For those of you that don’t know, children are like tiny adults that don’t have to pay bills and are more likely to poo and scream than the average wedding guest. Because they don’t always fully understand that churches are not appropriate places to squawk and make fudgies, they are often not top of some people’s invitation list. And that’s OK. If children aren’t your thing, then don’t invite any at all.

But the great thing about children is that more often than not they come with Guardians, unless you live in 17th century London near an Orphanage (in which case, how are you reading this article? Are you a wizard?) And more often than not, Guardians will take them outside if they need to poo or scream or ask why the lady three rows in front is so fat. Although I don’t have any of my own, I’m perfectly aware that children are not the Plague. They will not deliberately trash your wedding, unless their name is Damien. So it’s best just not to invite any ‘Damien’s.

“Aren't you going to lose weight / Should you really eat that if you want to fit into your dress?”

Hi, I’m Neety. I work hard. I play hard. And that’s why every now and then I treat myself to A Bloody Massive Cream Cake.

As ambassador for Bloody Massive Cream Cakes, I’d like to tell you how relaxing it is to tuck into a stodgy mass of carbohydrates and processed hydrogenated glycerinated sugar. So, if you’re like me, and have just had to deal with a nightmare customer, or have period pains that resemble the finest Navy SEAL team picking away at your uterus, maybe YOU should treat yourself...to A Bloody Massive Cream Cake.

Now that my imagine spot info-mercial is over, I’d like to state that I am human, and I will often eat something a little bit fatty or indulgent. And that shouldn’t stop just because my best friend put a shiny hoop on my finger.

Said best friend and I have always been a little on the zaftig side, and - sit down, this might come as a shock - we don’t mind that. It might come as a surprise to some people that there isn’t a little switch in peoples’ brains that turns on once they hit thirteen stone or so, making them suddenly desperate to join a Slimming World group, or face never being happy again. I’ve been the victim of this question at least twelve times, and only once was it acceptable: when Brawny’s aunt, who is a goldsmith, asked me so that she could size up the ring she is making us. AND ONLY THEN IS IT ACCEPTABLE, PEOPLE. Stop forcing your negative body image issues on me.

“Don’t invite your boss/ex/a divorcee!”

We gave a lot of thought to our invite list - it wasn’t like going through our phones and Facebook and just picking names. Generally, when planning a social gathering, you invite people who:
1: You think will enjoy being there
2: Make you happy
3: You think deserve a free meal Are nice

Pay close attention to numbers 1 and 2. If someone makes you feel that way, what does it matter if they’re your boss or not? And if I was playing by this rule, I’d have to not invite the ladies that are doing my hair and makeup, my Bridesmaid, and one of the Readers at the ceremony - simply because the former are my Boss and colleague, who are kindly doing my hair and makeup for free; my SIL who was a dear and trusted friend long before I started boffing her brother*, and my Ex-boyfriend, simply because we dated for a lovely yet short 6 months when I was 16. Seems a bit petty.

“Don’t invite anyone who doesn’t believe in marriage.”

Take a look at that sentence - doesn’t that just make the subject sound like the worst person ever? Saying that someone “doesn’t believe in marriage” makes them sound like the kind of loping misanthrope who goes around telling kids there’s no such thing as Father Christmas. Boo. Boo on that person.

I don’t think it’s a question of “not believing” - I’d rather say it’s more like “wouldn’t choose it for themselves” or “has a different view”. If they’re the sort of person that would try to push their views onto Brawny and I, I wouldn’t invite them anyway. But does that mean I have to not-invite my LGBT friends? After all, not all of them will choose to get married; some of them because they don’t want to, others because they sadly can’t have the marriage of their dreams.

One of the first people I told about our engagement was an old friend who is notoriously anti-marriage. He’s never said anything disparaging about it, only that it’s “not for him”. When I told him, he made a half-joking “yeuck” noise, but then he said something along the lines of “I always thought that if anyone could make a go of it, you and Brawny could.” Why wouldn’t I want someone as supportive as that at my wedding?!

“I’ve had enough! End the parade of ugly and stupid.”

So you see, there is a fair amount of narrow-mindedness and ill will in there, but luckily it’s all come from people I don’t know telling me what to do. Everyone has an opinion, and as soon as you say “I’m getting married”, you may find yourself having to nod and smile politely while someone tells you that “You don’t need a piece of paper to show that you love someone”.

So just ignore the idiots, because the only person you DEFINITELY shouldn’t be inviting is them. 

*Sorry, Ro

No Dress? No Stress (aka. The LADYBRIDE After School Special)

There are a few things that a bride never wants to hear, and one of those phrases is "I'm really sorry, but there's been a problem with your dress".

I had a great time picking out my dress. Sure, some shops treated me a bit like a walking money spewing machine, but Gerry undid all of that - she was everything you'd want from someone who plays such a big part in your wedding preparations. I'd made sure I ordered the dress in plenty of time, had my measurements taken, and was told to expect my dress sometime during the last week in January.

I phoned Gerry earlier today on my lunch break just to touch base and find out if the dress had arrived, and that was when she said a variant on the above sentence. Gerry was calm, but I could tell she had been through the emotional wringer that afternoon. She told me that the dress had arrived at the stockists a week ago, when it had been due, and they had found a fault in the material. She told me she had been very cross with them and had urged them to get a replacement to her as fast as they possibly could and then some. She said she didn't want me to have a dress that was anything less than perfect, and I told her that I was very grateful and the dress would simply get here when it gets here.

She then told me that I was the most chilled-out Bride, ever. I was highly flattered!

The shiny new replacement dress is due in early March, so there is still time to make any necessary adjustments. Come our wedding day, I will have a dress.

You might be wondering what my point is. Am I trying to give myself a big pat on the back? I honestly am not, and I actually cannot swear that I'm 100% settled - I am a little concerned, and my Mum was quite worried when I told her. After all, it could be late, or something else could go wrong. But there isn't any point wondering about something that hasn't even happened yet.

Recently, I had a nightmare which occurred a couple of days after Brawny and I had posted our invitations. I dreamt I was at home on my day off when I received a card from a relative. Inside was a card that simply said "We will not be attending your wedding". Then the phone went. On the other end of the line was a very dear mutual friend of ours. He and his girlfriend couldn't come to the wedding, either. I pressed him for details, and eventually I got an explanation out of him:

"The things is," he said sharply, "We don't actually like you. We don't like the way you treat Brawny." And he hung up. The telephone rang again and, you guessed it, another friend told me they wouldn't be coming to the wedding on account of the festering doucheturd that I was. As the dream went on I kept getting more and more rejections, each one more personal and painful than the last.

When I woke up, I couldn't shake the dream off for days. I thought back about all the horrible things I'd done over the years: dumping a dustbin over someone's head in Middle School, pushing my baby brother over, going out with a friend's ex-boyfriend just days after they'd broken up, stealing a tenner from my Dad. I went through my guest list and tried to find a reason that each individual guest would hate me. And when I couldn't find something, I reasoned with myself that it was only a matter of time before I pissed them off. It was only when I found myself convinced that my Maid of Honour would remember an argument we had years ago about a hypothetical motorbike (stop laughing, I'm serious) that I realised I was being a total idiot*.

There is no point wondering about what might happen because it just creates unnecessary drama. And everyone knows that: I'm not trying to win any prizes for my philosophising here!

But because prepping for a wedding is a high-pressure deal, it's easy to forget the unnecessary drama rule and get swept up in the apocalyptic reasoning. All I can say is that it pays to remember that nightmare scenarios are extremely rare in real life, and are often just little blips. If anyone is winding you up, step away; if you're worrying too much then just talk it over, and try to approach the situation logically rather than emotionally. Oh, and don't eat cheese before bed.

*(I know I joke around, but seriously, that dream has bothered me for weeks. If you're in a similar situation, I urge you to have a chat with someone sensible and level-headed, and they will help guide you back to sanity. I'd like to take this opportunity to recommend Offbeat Bride, who are a very helpful no-criticism no-bitching "wedsite" offering everything from friendship and advice to craft ideas and how-tos. Similarly their sister sites Offbeat Home and Offbeat Families are superb.)

Food for Thought

        My Mum always knows how to salvage something gone wrong. Whether it was turning a ripped pair of jeans into fashionable shorts, turning a collapsed sponge cake into the base of a delicious trifle or soothing hurt feelings into laughter, she does a pretty good trade in fixing up. If life is a rubbish dump, Mum would be Steptoe.

        Sometimes, there are things she can’t fix right away: broken teenage hearts, smashed ornaments, tiny chain filaments that require Dad’s pliers and steady eye. Yesterday, it was my almond macaroons. I’d gone over to Mums to make use of her company and her eye-level oven, and after following a difficult online recipe the end result was a bowl of pink yop that looked like I’d melted down Mr Blobby. I consulted with the elder of the tribe to see what went wrong. Mum and I took the bowl out into the kitchen for surveillance.

        She hovered over the bowl as if it were the Pensieve from Harry Potter. “Did you put eggs in?” She asked, spooning the mixture out and watching it plop runnily into the bowl again.

        “It’s gotta be about eighty percent egg,” I reasoned. “The recipe said so.”

        “Caster sugar or icing?” Mum hovered over the pink bowl like Mystic Meg.

        “Er…both? Icing for the almond paste, caster for the sugar syrup.” I was beginning to sweat. This was like a final exam: if I’d made a rudimentary mistake, I would shame myself as - gasp! - a rubbish cook. I started running through the process in my head; first I’d done this, then this, then that. Then I’d whisked it. Had I whisked it enough? I was sure I’d whisked it enough.

        “I whisked it enough,” I said pathetically.

        “Maybe a little more couldn’t help,” said Mum brightly, grabbing the electric whisk and shoving it into the quivering pink mass. “After all, it’s about eighty percent egg.”

        As I watched her at work (noticing she had the same stern expression of concentration as my Dad), I had a thought about wisdom and skills. When it came to cooking in the ‘W’ family, Mum was unanimously crowned Queen. In my own home, I reigned supreme. While I’m cooking, Brawny will often hover around, asking questions that usually follow the “Are you supposed to do that?” mould. Once I’ve given him a few logical answers, he leaves the kitchen, vowing to never again question my cooking ability ‘because I’m always right’.

        I mentioned earlier that while Mum can salvage most things, Dad can make light work of a broken necklace. Similarly, Brawny can recover failed hard drives, unblock sinks, re-wire faulty consoles and manage our finances.

        I know what you’re thinking. I know that it takes different kinds to make a world, and not everyone’s the same, and you must have compromise in a relationship blah blah blah. But what if there’s something you can’t salvage?

        In the past two years, Brawny and I have gone through a fair amount. Just like Mum’s whisk couldn’t save my macaroons, even our joint efforts couldn’t always help our situation. And then there’s the doubt: Why couldn’t we fix it? What did we do wrong? Why didn’t the mixture peak like bloody meringues are bloody supposed to?

        After ten minutes of fruitless whisking, fifty grams of icing sugar and a rather dirty worktop, Mum and I were about to write off Project Macaroon as a big fat failure. I was feeling as sick as my mixture looked: I’d toiled for three hours, making a mess and several mistakes as I went, and now I had nothing to show for it. As Mum shut off the whisk, shaking her head like a doctor calling the time of death, Dad came in and eyed the gloop on the table.

        “What is that?” he snorted. “Did someone's brain melt?”

        And I laughed. I kept laughing as Mum spooned the goop up again for Dad to see, and as he picked up the crystallised lump that had been my first attempt at sugar syrup and described it as “mutant poo” I kept hooting and hollering with mirth.

        As I went home, I reflected on my achievements. I could have been miserable; three hours’ work had been poured down the kitchen drain, and I had nothing to show for my efforts. I didn't even know why it went wrong and how I could have saved it. But all it had taken to cheer me up was Dad pointing out that my cooking looked like effluence.

        “So what did you do today with your Mum?” asked Brawny while I was cooking dinner (curry - something I’ve cooked from scratch a zillion times). I thought about how rotten I’d felt about my situation until Dad had encouraged me to laugh at it. I then thought about all the times Brawny had made me chuckle through my tears when we couldn't find a solution to a problem. As long as we could see the funny side, it gave us the will to try another day.

        “I learnt that I can’t make macaroons,” I said, before adding with a wink, “Yet.”

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Everyone, to some extent, is vain.

I'm not saying we're all drowning in our reflections like mini Narcissi. There's a scale of vanity, much like there is a scale for the Piri-Piri sauce at Nando's. Some people are low down on the scale: perhaps they take a little while in the bathroom before a night out, or they will happily take a compliment. That's your kind of everyday, Lemon-and-Herb self-appreciation (we're sticking with the Nando's analogy.) Other people can't pass any shiny surface without gravitating towards it and making sex faces at themselves. Obviously that's the kind of Piri-self-love that causes hot flashes, swelling of the mouth and the runs.

I should begin my story by stressing that it's OK to be happy with yourself: there's nothing wrong with a little pride, in moderation.

I've never much liked my body, especially during the days of unflattering school uniforms. Just when I'd become used to it, puberty hit me like a truck. All my favourite outfits betrayed me as my figure changed, and they had to be exchanged. On top of that, I had a few health issues that required physio and medication. Coupled with good old-fashioned playground bullying, I began to dislike a great deal of my body. My only constant was my hair.

It was thick, long and a treacly brown. Over the years, I'd dyed it pink, purple, blue, green, red and a horrible straw blonde when I'd accidentally fallen asleep with lightener in it. Although I'd used and abused it, it faithfully grew back.

I don’t know about you, but I like follow a daily routine: I get up, wash my hair, have breakfast and plan my day. Except one recent morning, when I went to dry my hair, something odd happened. My hairdryer malfunctioned, and set fire to my head.

I fled to the bathroom, flinging the nearest thing (a cardigan) over my head. I crouched on the bathroom floor until I heard the sizzling stop. As I stood up to look in the mirror, little black flakes that were once my fringe fluttered down like dreadful snow.

Ever heard the phrase "...And then I lost it"? That's exactly what I did. I panicked. I tried phoning my Dad and getting a colleague instead, then I tried Brawny (who was at work) in desperation, before finally speaking to my brother, and probably not making much sense.

Afterwards, I decided I'd better check myself over just in case adrenaline was hiding any pain. My head seemed fine, but the fringe and entire right side had matted together. I tried to brush it through but to my horror the hair just crumbled into nothing. I grabbed the scissors and began hacking off any dead, blackened bits.

It turned out that my answerphone message had made so little sense that Brawny had come home early from work. As he checked me over, Mum rang – Xel had filled her in. Together, the three of us took an emergency trip to my hairdresser’s.

While the hairdresser did her very best to turn my mangled mane into a fashionable crop-cut, I avoided the mirror. Along with my hair, my sense of self had been badly damaged. Though it’d been all the colours of the rainbow, I’d never had hair this short. Admittedly, I had considered hacking it all off in the name of charity (instead I opted to mangle my name so it now resembles an explosion at Webster’s printing press). Would it have felt so bad if I’d decided to cut it? Maybe not, but there’s a difference between “Hmm, shall I cut my hair?” and “Holy shitcaskets, my head is ON FIRE.”

Snap forward a few weeks and I’m in a wig boutique, trying on a bevy of different styles with my glossy posse: Mum, my second mum Joy and Rachel, who I’ve known for years (and have had a secret hair envy of ever since Brownies). I find a gorgeous auburn wig which looks just like a longer version of my old hair, and I’m waltzing out of the shop with the spring back in my step.

You can pretend to be as self-assured and non-superficial as you like, but when something changes so suddenly and so out of your control, you can’t predict how you’ll react. I know I’d still love Brawny if it’d been his hair that caught fire, but it would’ve taken a few days to get used to the new look. Thankfully it was just hair, which grows back over time - I’ve been in relationships where someone’s personality has gradually changed, and the end result was much more shocking than any kind of change in appearance.

Maybe losing a chunk of hair was actually a blessing in disguise. Though I’m now used to my crop, I’ve been trying on wedding dresses* with my wig on, but that’s simply because having temporarily longer hair has made me reconsider my style options – I’d previously wanted to keep my short bob right up until W-Day and I’ve now decided to opt for a versatile longer ‘do. I’d never have thought of that if I hadn’t suddenly found the need to wear a wig.

It has been said that “character is what you are in the dark”. Nobody can help making judgements based on appearance – I’d been afraid that having less hair would make me less feminine, yet I still like flowers, baking, and wearing dresses. I’m the same person I was before I started drying my hair that day; I just come in slightly different packaging now. Why should I have worried about being treated differently?

I wouldn’t recommend burning something off to learn the value of this lesson, but maybe it’s a good idea to survey the spicy scale of vanity now and again just to find out where you are. I will be doing so every time I look in the mirror, and figuring out if I need to adjust my palate accordingly.

Oh, and just for kicks, here’s a little chart of how my looks changed.