The day before the wedding was invigorating; my two best friends were there with me to set up for the big day. After eighteen months of preparation; dress fittings, make-up trials, seating plans and family dramas and feuds, my day was about to dawn.
Just like when we were teenagers Charlie, Vicki and I were going to share a room at my parents’. Spending the night with two of the people I felt closest to in the world was such a relief.
We had chips and beers and lay in our sleeping bags telling stories; the only difference being, now we had cellulite and stretch marks and lots of responsibilities. The evening makes me contemplate myself, be a little self-critical, take one last look at my single soon to be committed (in matrimony not mental institute) self.
I am a very mature almost married twenty six-year-old. With a mass of blonde corkscrew curls, deep brown eyes, the colour of chocolate (they even look like they have a touch of caramello round the centre), definitely my fave feature.
You wouldn’t describe me as a tall lanky size eight, and it’s not that I miss that. I am quite attune with my more voluptuous size twelve, but I love to reminisce, about those thoroughbred thighs that dominated my teenage years and used to get cars tooting and construction workers to stop in their tracks.
I remember those perky breasts that used to just sit up and do as they were told, and look good in anything from grubby sweatshirts to glam nightwear. How clothes used to fall off my body like it was made for it, yes those great days where no matter where you shopped everything hugged to the right places.
No, don’t get me wrong. I am quite used to the little bit of pudge that was once flat abs, and my butt fills out jeans better than it ever did. And if I am not quite sure whether my boobs have got bigger or just appear so because of gravity’s nasty trick, then it can quite happily remain a mystery.
I still get asked for ID, it might be the faint tinge of smile lines around my eyes, and I am always on the lookout for stray facial hairs that pop up on my face. I blame the media, yes the media, for bringing this unsightly problem to my attention.
And despite popular belief you won’t be any happier from rubbing expensive, sticky, smelly goop all over your legs in a bid for perfection, I do it religiously anyway.
So yes, this cute little blonde is happy, yes I only have cut the size tags out of my clothes occasionally (don’t need to be constantly branded with numbers, yecch).
So now that I have covered the superficial heavy stuff I can sit back and take part in the shrieking and giggling with my two besties until the early hours of the morning when I will wake for the big day.
Writing order: Vatsal Shah (Ind) Sumanda Maritz (S. Africa) Ken Burns (NZ) Linda Alley (Aus) Jasmine Groves (Aus) Donna McT (NZ) Sumanda Maritz (S. Africa) Anna Zhigareva tbc (Scotland) (NZ) Suraya Dewing (NZ) Tulika Saha (Ind)