This weekend was full of domesticity and things that I can remember my own parents doing not too long ago when I was left at home with a babysitter, or grandma. Things that made me realize that oh-my-goodness, I am getting old. Definitely not the age where I can spend my time cutting cool pictures out of magazines and watching music television.
The fiancé and I over-nighted at Calabogie Peaks resort, about an hour outside of the city, as his parents have a timeshare and are staying there for the week. We cooked dinner, went on walks, and the craziest point was when he and I drank wine while playing Monopoly with his family until the wee hours of 11:30 at night when everyone started falling asleep. Saturday night we went to our friend’s 24th birthday party. We didn’t do jello shots, we didn’t pose for over-animated goofy-faced pictures, and we didn’t even go out to the bars afterwards. We had a nice time talking to people and sipping our drinks responsibly. After a few hours of this I was drunk enough to lean over to a married couple and ask them, “Do you guys ever feel like, you know, old doing all this grown-up, non-kid stuff?” I don’t remember quite what they answered, but I remember that they didn’t understand what I meant; they thought cocktail parties were just what you did, just a natural progression so smooth, they didn’t even notice.
Sunday morning my mum and sister came over and met up with Maid of Honour #1 (of 2) and I, as we had plans to attend the Wedding Show across the street at the Civic Centre. I had gone to sleep the night before (drunkenly, you’ll recall) excited to attend this wedding show because I am the bride and that meant people at flower and photo display booths would be congratulating me, and I liked that idea. We navigated our way through chocolate fondue samples, and I accumulated a nice bag of wedding magazines, free samples, coupons and business cards to go through at a later, pushed-out-of-my-mind date. We sat in on a wedding planning seminar and I took notes on the speaker’s great tips. I like the planning part because that means organizing and I just love organizing, putting things in order and making schedules. But then we went to the wedding gown sale section.
Suddenly, there were mothers and daughters who looked to me to be as old as my elementary school teachers once seemed to me: They looked fresh out of grad school, but still so much older than I felt. I looked at dresses, comparing them to ones I’d liked in magazines. I found one that met the criteria, walked into the peach curtained-off dressing rooms with Maid of Honour, and stripped down to my undies, among other girls and their helpers who were doing the same. I stepped into the dress, and a lady helped clip the dress in the back to make it fit. Her and my friend pulled some parts, zipped others and made final ruffles before I turned to look in the mirror.
I slowly maneuvered through the layers of tulle, looked up at my reflection and was shocked. I wanted to cry, or fall, or have someone slap me in the face, but I don’t know if any of those things would have done any good (or been socially appropriate). It took a minute for me to get my bearings and look at my reflection in the eyes. Just then, the lady put a veil on my head and I just about shot through the roof. I am really going to be a bride. One day soon, one day that gets closer every time I wake up, I am going to be wearing a big white dress and I am going to get married. It was completely overwhelming. I guess everyone has those moments where big changes really sink in and they “get it.” Well, there I stood in that peach-curtained room, with a veil on my head, and my body in a big, beautiful white wedding gown, and I got it. I wanted to smile and laugh and run around the place screaming with excitement.
I’m excited to get married, and I’m excited to be married. As much as things might change (either because I’m getting married or because I’m growing up), I actually like the idea of having more domestic weekends with him. I know the frequency with which I stumble past a bouncer into a club and order Red Bulls with vodka so I can keep dancing to heavy beats will decrease with time. Maid of Honour and I were talking about this, and acknowledged that we just can’t become 30 years old one day and still be pre-drinking hard liquor at shanty student apartments before going to bars as part of a weekly ritual. Things have to change. And that’s not a bad thing, but it’s happening, and now I think I get it.