It is rather bloody exciting being engaged, I really must admit. For starters, I get to look at websites that sell trinkets and treasures, with a legitimate excuse. I can reward my very best friends for years of service, by requesting that they join me up the aisle and be my super beautiful bridesmaids. I can write a speech – hurrah! I love speech making. Us Willis’s were taught at an early age to embrace public speaking and as a result, Gareth says we’d all make speeches at the dawn of each new day if we could get away with it. (Or if anyone was listening.)
I get to look at wedding dresses. Not in a crazy, oh-my-god she’s looking at dresses, what a saddo, sort of way. Not a pining, then looking away quickly because I’m not getting married, sort of way. No, that’s all changed now. I have a ring on my finger, so chuck over some Vera Wang and a glass of champagne, pronto. My dad gingerly tried to suggest I choose the kind of dress I could wear again. Pa! Does he not know me at all? Unless the second occasion is another wedding, there will be no excuse to ever wear this little white number again.
I can fret about whether or not to change my name. Kim Jones Willis? Kim Willis Jones? Kim Jones? Who is she? Is she as super cool and fun as Kim Willis? Maybe she’s even better.
I can toy with the idea of a prenup. Oh Catherine Zeta Jones, you clever little minx! (Zeta-Jones is guaranteed $2.8 million for every year of marriage, plus a $5 million bonus if Douglas is caught cheating. To equate that to our lives, I reckon I could get £2.80 for every year of marriage, and a £5 bonus if Gareth shaves off his lovely beard. Although, I would be quite keen to protect my asset, Eddie the campervan. I reckon Gareth’s got his eye on it. I might make it a morganatic marriage just to protect Eddie. (*)
I get to look at honeymoon destinations, tossing up between a beach in Fiji and a hike round India is a full time job in itself.
I am Google’s number one searcher. I am searching for thing after thing, whiling away every evening with more fantastical ideas. Fireworks? String quartet? Releasing a white dove? (All a definite no. I’m cheesy but this isn’t a big fat gypsy wedding. Although Gareth does keep pushing for an owl to deliver the rings. He does love his owls.)
Facebook knows I’m engaged. My side bar is filled with wedding related advertising. A little bit creepy if you ask me. Stop reading my messages, Zuckerberg!
My future husband is slightly less interested in the wedding than I. Every time I start telling him my latest idea, he says something clever like: ‘Is that a new top?’ or ‘You look very pretty today,’ in the hope flattery will avert my attention and I’ll stop talking. (Unless we talk about owls. And then we’re not really talking about the wedding, we’re just talking about owls again.)
As I have the artistic eye of a blind lab rat, he ought to be careful. He’s letting me choose stuff. I am in charge, and he jokes the old adage that all he’s going to do is turn up. Well, I can’t say I didn’t warn him. There will be a monstrosity of a dress, there will be clashing colours, there will be too much money spent on things guests don’t even notice. Mwa ha ha. The dormant bride inside of me has been unleashed. Hello Etsy, I’m off to buy more tat.
*I am changing my name. Hell, I want to have the same name as my husband, even if it is Jones. I always thought I’d marry a Slazenger. Maybe a Van De Something. But you can’t choose the surname of the man you fall in love with, unfortunately. As for a prenup? Na. Gareth knows I’ll kick his ass if he ever tries to divorce me and steal my campervan.
"The composition of my soul is made, too great for servile, avaricious trade.
When raving in the lunacy of ink, I catch my pen and publish what I think."
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