Marry Me (Mafia)

First and foremost I must introduce the main theme for the blog today: marriage. And before you all get side tracked with the story ahead; I would like to announce that I was left with a deep yearning to be married. Now. I will have a wedding. It looked like such a wonderful party and everything was so beautifully decorated and the bride had a gorgeous dress and she seemed so happy…I want it. I don’t care if for a wedding one is supposed to have a groom, I will have a wedding and sort out the groom somehow. But in case I find no attractive mannequin, offers for a groom welcome by e-mail or mail order delivery and just a heads up, I do not suffer fools gladly.

Back to the actual wedding. The setting was stunning. It was on the grounds of a manor house dedicated to celebrations; the gardens were extensive, the peacocks were numerous(yes, they’re the new turtle doves, didn’t you know?), the main house was a huge dining room with candles at every corner and framing every stone column. Just beyond the French windows a petal scattered lawn stretched out, dotted with elegant wicker garden furniture, little tea lights marked wood carved ornaments and even a section with a bouncy castle and foosball tables had been set up for the children. And by children, I mean me had I had not been wearing a flouncy dress and see-through tights…the bouncy castle was the only thing I have pending to do and am considering buying myself a private one. For my garden. Just for me. To bounce on all day long.
Games aside, the area where the celebration was held was a lovely little secluded spot down some absolutely horrific steps. There were a lot of women at that wedding, therefore a lot of heels, stilettos and humid if not a tad muddy grass. What is wrong with all those put together? The puncturing of the grass with the heel and thus the sinking of the woman with every step; one minute you’re 6 foot (in my case), the next you’re back down 4 inches, it ends up looking highly ungraceful and like human bobbing apples. Not to mention the state we must have all left the grass in by the end of the evening; something like a football field after all the players and their studded boots have pounded on it for a while. Me in heels is already an ordeal - I turn into this skyscrapingly tall woman tottering about, having to bend down just to shake people’s hands and crippled within the hour as my toes have splayed and my feet flattened and suddenly take up thrice as much space as before. Every step is one in the direction of self hate towards my feet. Not to mention my calves, they are used to gym exercise, not this muscle shaping, tension building continuous umpteen hour cramp! So when I can, I lean. On anything, anyone and even if it means leaning the tiniest bit of my ass on the tiniest corner of ANYTHING I will lean so as to take the weight off one heel at least.

After the ceremony the guests had the opportunity to sit up near the dining hall on the deluxe wicker chairs, after having taken a trip to the open bar, sorry did you not catch that? It was, Open Bar, and await those floating from table to table daintily putting aperitifs near your lips so as to tempt you with the varied and fine cuisine. I kid you not, the waiters were top notch. (Shant be giving out the name of the catering company or manor house as we have not yet agreed upon the commission.) My aunt sat and spoke to another guest there, who happens to have won at least one (if not two) gold medals for running (super fast). And since I do not speak Portuguese, (the wedding took place in Portugal) I found little to add to the conversation since like I said, I don’t do Portuguese and I certainly don’t do running…last time I ran was in 2005 and it was in London, for a bus and I fell, scraped my knee and still have the scar. Nur does not run. And therefore my eyes wandered to the guests and their attire. It would seem black is the new black. Black for a wedding, really? That’s just a little wrong, surely? There my aunt and I were, her clad in (sophisticatedly) shiny purple and me in a short blue silk dress (which by the way had a thick silk lining that was doing the best job it knew how at oppressing my chest. I felt like a eunuch. Not to mention the tights, have we mentioned the tights? Well, the tights were bought in Portugal in Portuguese and I do not do Portuguese. So I ended up, involuntarily buying ‘control’ tights. These are chubbiness controlling, ass squeezing and thigh converting into sausage tights. Absolutely horrendous, am still in shock and have no idea how some people wear these voluntarily. It took me about 20 minutes to put them on and I cut myself out of them at the end of the night. Between my chest, my lower limbs and feet…I was boxed in, up and moving very slowly. ) And so in case the oppression wasn’t plainly visible on my face, say, if you were near enough to me to see it, I was wearing half metre high heels. Suffice to say we stood out like two quite colourfully sore thumbs, or perhaps, me just plainly sore. Whilst everybody else looked like they were attending a funeral where laughing and joking and smiling were the done things. A few people took the dressed in black look a bit more seriously and added the shades, either in your face Armani or super Gucci…and stood on the borders of the crowds…with their arms crossed…looking mean…in fact, I think the Portuguese mafia were present at the wedding. Really, with so much corruption in the country I wouldn’t be surprised if we had Pedro DeVito and co. attending rather indiscreetly the countryside wedding. I did catch them glaring from guest to guest and can only assume there was some sort of silent turf war going on; “This piece of grass ain’t big enough fo’ yo’ boss ‘n’ mine!” sort of thing.

The supper was stupendous, the jazz player even better and when I stood up after the 8 course meal I realized I had been drinking wine and not water. The waiters at one point had also laced my Schweppes tonic water. And by laced I mean they put some gin in and I didn’t send it back. Thus clearly laced, and drank against my will. Clearly.

The drive home was in part through country lanes, you would think it would be a slow, meandering drive, wouldn’t you? But my aunt is a wannabe racer boy, so as we sped through the country lanes and the trees whizzed by in a blur of green I sat back in my seat (trying to ignore the fact I could no longer feel the last 2 toes on each foot) and listened as my biological wedding clock ticked. I will have a wedding, I will have a dress, there will be a groom but first, I must work on committing…tricky, tricky, tricky.