Wedding tackle

My sister got married. My younger sister got married. My older married brother came up for the wedding, with his wife. I said a speech. They each brought their partner and I brought a speech. (Ok so it was my sister's wedding so I guess she had to bring her partner.) But is anyone seeing the gap here?

Usually, I feel like a benevolent observer at weddings. "How twee," I think. "Look at the fabulous couple embarking on their journey to divorce." (Ok I usually only think that if I read a newspaper that day, which only reminds me that humans are a physical embodiment of grossness, mayhem and violence.)

I almost always contemplate the nature of community celebrations; what it is to publicly declare your union; that a wedding is a torturous process that allows the different families to finally realise who they are letting into their gene pool. I also think back on all the weddings I have attended, or not attended. How weddings seem to be watershed moments in friendships. I ruminate on the cost - how a day can tally up to the same amount as a deposit on a house or a fabulous overseas trip. But this wedding was different.

I had been part of weddings where I was intricately involved in the ceremony. However I had never been part of a family where everyone was or had been married at some point except for yours truly. If you asked me six months ago if it mattered, I would have glibly said no. But when the moment arrived, it did matter. A lot.

Suddenly I was having my own little watershed moment. I was facing a truth. To be married, to have kids (the really big picture started descending at this point), to represent what I had always viewed, and in some way opposed, as the traditional face of western society was actually part of a growth process. I came to the realisation that I would never properly grow up and become a fully actualised person without committing to responsibility - be it a long-term relationship or children or something else - and these rites of passage represented those commitments.

So there I stood, amidst the festivities, facing a future of continuing post-adolescence. I saw myself, at eighty, and it worried me. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Run forward and embrace the social notion of partnership that I have always struggled with, or remain in stasis, without growth. So I did what any logical minded person would do. I drank.

Drink can blur the edges but it cannot stop the tradition of the bouquet being thrown. Although at this wedding there were two bouquets as there were two brides. One tradition stared stony faced at the other tradition. It was a show down. Would I, the stalwart non-participant, engage in what I had previously viewed as a symbol of women's acquiescence and submission to a larger patriarchal tyranny?

Yes I would.

I put down my glass. Shoved people aside. Shouted at my sister and my new sister-in-law that they must aim their bouquets at me. Missed the first one. Complained loudly to the crowd. Went for the rugby tackle approach for the second bouquet. Which I caught. And somewhere I hoped the Molecule of Destiny was listening, because the feminist had landed and she wanted commitment.

knock knock

Don't mind me. Just tiptoe-ing back to my blog. Cough. No time has passed at all. Nope. I don't have commitment issues. I mean what is err... six months in the bigger picture? It is a mere blip on this wonderful place we call the universe. (Dodging through use of optimism - excellent tool discovered by watching politicians.) I am back. I am also front, up and down. I have been taking a really expensive treatment for my Crohn's and have been a superduperbusinesswhirlpool oh-my-god-where-does-she-get-the-energy person. So I have my excuses. That and the fact a blog means commitment and I am not sure I know how to commit. Although I could probably commit myself to an insane asylum. Or I could commit hara kiri. (Leave me while I wander down the lanes of language nuance.)

I was asked if I had read 'The Satanic Verses'. (It was a relative - around eighty, wild and a Marxist. At some point I should introduce you to my family.) I told her that I don't read newspapers anymore. In my world, newspapers are the Satanic Verses. Local news? Makes you want to emigrate. International news? Makes you want to change species. I don't know if it is because communication has opened up so much that all is revealed, or because our world is galloping along to a biblical conclusion. I do know it's giving me an ulcer and I have enough of those.

This day

Today will be a good day.

Because I said so.

Thursday and counting

So I woke up at 5.30am with thr intention of getting straight to work. But by the time I had done bowels and cats, it was 6am. Time may wait for no man but it fucking flies for woman. I then hit the computer with a vengeance and tried to be creative with a newsletter. I spent ages "being creative". It ended up looking really similar to the not creative version. So I ate and ate and ate. Then I bathed. I fell asleep in the bath. When I woke up, all cold and disorientated, I sloshed out the bath and ate. Then I phoned a take away place to order more food. Now I am going to work on my next project, while I contemplate the nature of my food obsession and my desire not to go out to a singles evening. Ugh.

work it

I can't buckle down to work. I am going to be destitute, living on the streets and forced to become a prostitute to make money. (Optimism is not my middle name.)

Hey Booklooking!

Some people fit into the supermodel mode. They do glamorous at the drop of a hat. I just drop the hat. Actually I don't even wear hats. I am not traditionally goodlooking but I am what I call booklooking. Don't attempt to look this word up in the dictionary. It could be harmful to your health.

Booklooking is more than a bibliophile on the rampage. The real booklooker cannot breathe without the knowledge that they have something of interest to read, tucked somewhere safe. Actually there must be at least three books on the go, as well as magazines and other reading stuff. When times are tough even pamphlets will do. It is amazing how many paving companies there are (that comes courtesy of the homebuilders pamphlet).

A booklooker needs to read. It is an addiction. It isn't about being high brow and wowing people with your immense knowledge of the latest Booker Prize. Marian Keyes rates as highly as that person that wrote The God of Small Things. (Authors tend to blur after year 15.) Some of us indulge in crack (now what was that about builders), for others the nicotine stain leads life. For me it is reading material. I have even resorted to reading the back of shampoo bottles while on the loo in a friend's house.

But I am in dispair. There seem to be no good books. I want something that will transport me out of this world. But nothing has crossed my vision in the last 6 months. Forget boys, where have all the good books gone? I dont want clever... that leaves me rooted in this world... or a book that doesnt carry me off... but nothing... although I have now resorted to trawling the children's section at the local Exclusive Books. Roald Dahl is always a good bet and his books are worth collecting. Even if his name sounds like an Indian dinner.

smoke-free zone

When I went hospital, I gave up smoking. Just like that. It wasn't so bad when I was in a different environment but once I got home and back to my routineless routines, it was bizarrely difficult. I feel like I am crack addict. The idea of smoking fills my brain most of the day and it is already 3 weeks.

The physical cravings went After 2 weeks but the psychological craving doesn't seem to want to let up. Smoking filled a space in my life that I wasn't ready to give up. It marked the time in my days. It allowed me to stop thinking. It put my life on hold. Before I did anything, I smoked. When I need a break, I smoked. Now I have my life ahead of me and I am not sure that I like what I am seeing. Before, I could have clouded the realisation with a smoke. Now there is just endless time ahead of me. Endless potential to be filled.

I have to face my faults head on now. There is no pause button and my brain is having problems dealing with this. Smoking was a pause from life, in every way. It brings you closer to death. You ride the edge but do it in a 'safe' way.

Now that I am an almost non-smoker, I am propelled forward by Oprah moments. I must live my best life. I must fulfil my potential. I must create change. I should make a difference. There is no pause.