I’m here now, which means it must be Monday morning. Dammit. Think I’ll make a cape out of a dishcloth, put my panties on over my pants, and try to be brave.
Here’s yesterday’s Sunday Times column, it’s about weddings, and all the fabric involved.
Happy week, peep.
A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – By Paige Nick
THE BIG I DON’T.
If our president is anything to go by, weddings are big here in Mzansi. As far as I know he currently has three wives, while two fiancés wait in the wings, in big hats. In fact after doing a bit of research I suspect we might all be in the wrong business, South Africa’s wedding industry is booming, worth somewhere in the multi-billions.
Not that our divorce industry isn’t big too. Of course it’s smaller than America’s, which sits at around 50% of all marriages doing a Lindsay Lohan and collapsing in a heap in the corner. Ours certainly isn’t as scary, but it’s still pretty hefty. In fact I think it would be interesting to find out who makes more money out there, the wedding planners, photographers, dress designers, venues and caterers, or the divorce lawyers?
Personally I don’t picture myself ever getting married. Not in the traditional sense anyway. I reckon I’m more of a Justice of the Peace and a week in Vegas kind of girl, than a fluffy meringue of a frock and Hava Negilla type.
But in my experience, I’m the exception, rather than the rule. Most girls dream about their wedding from a young age, planning what they’re going to wear, and of course what they’re going to make their bridesmaids wear. And when it comes to weddings there’s no scrimping on the fabric. The pouffier the sleeve and miranguier the dresses, the better. Why go for a fabric that breathes, when something shiny, synthetic and polyester is so much better. I pity the fool who lights a match next to the Maid of Honour at most weddings. But hey, it’s the bride’s day so the bridesmaids have to smile for the camera, grit their teeth and bear it, those are the rules.
Guys on the other hand, have it easy. The Groom may have to be dragged kicking, screaming and hung-over to one or two fittings, but just about every other dude at the wedding gets to rent a tux, or just pull out their ‘graduation and funerals’ suit. Then all they have to do is whip it off to the dry cleaners to get rid of the puke stains from the last time they wore it, and boom, they’re sorted.
The guys also get to wear flat shoes to weddings (unless they’re going to Elton John’s wedding). It’s not so easy for us girls, we really like to torture ourselves properly on the most special day of our lives.
My friend, Animal (I don’t think that’s the actual name on his birth certificate, but I can’t be so sure that it isn’t) was invited to a wedding a while back. He was one of the important groomsmen, so he had to wear a tuxedo and what one of my colleagues calls a camembert (this is the same guy who is still convinced that for his wedding he and his wife exchanged ‘wedding vowels’). The wedding was to be a huge, fancy affair. His whole family and all his brothers were going, as well as a further cast of hundreds. He even had to make a speech, which he spent a whole hour downloading.
I started to worry ever so slightly when I still hadn’t heard from him three days after the wedding. Look, when your name is Animal people tend to keep their expectations of you low, so they don’t panic too much if you go missing for anything less than seventy two hours. Eventually, four days later, he finally answered my vaguely concerned ‘are you alive?’ smses with:
‘It was good. Got horribly drunk. Got hit on by a cousin and woke up naked in a strange place and everyone else had left. Brother had to drive for an hour and a half to come fetch me.’
Now, if I ever get married, that’s the kind of wedding I want.