Don’t you hate that? I will repeat – don’t you haaaaaaaate that?
I wish I could bring a date – but my designated date is asleep on a couch back in Amman, and everyone in Kiev appears to be “asleep,” “busy” or “washing [their] hair.”
It’s nice to go to weddings in the summer, even if people do poke you in the ribs on those occasions and ask you when it’s going to be “your turn” (not going to happen today, hopefully, hurrah for relative anonymity). And unlike social gatherings in Amman, where I feel, more than anything, like a fly on the wall, there’s bound to be some conversation after a particular round of champagne.
And I am happy for Yura & Tanya. Yura and I used to be… what is that embarrassing word? Oh yeah, an “item,” but then again, Tanya knows and couldn’t give a damn, and it isn’t as though this is one of those upper-to-middle class Anglo-Saxon affairs on the East Coast, where you have to anxiously write Dear Prudence asking for permission to see off two people you know well and care for into marriage, just because you once snogged the groom.
But, social anxiety is social anxiety, no matter how well you package it (I am personally going in a splashy, flowery dress I once gave to my mother, now that I can fit into it again). I don’t like going to gathering where I don’t know anyone, especially if I don’t know if my Americanness is going to be held against me, or else if the groom’s grandma suddenly remembers that I am that “bourgeois tart.”
Maybe I’ll duck out early and sit on the beach with a bottle. The weather certainly calls for it, and it’s not as if you don’t think certain thinky thoughts when your exes start getting hitched. Nothing too depressing or melodramatic, really, none of that “woe iz me, where are my 17 years?” business, but what you do end up thinking about is how you are no longer a child anymore, how there are deadlines to be met and achievements to be achieved, because life is freakin’ finite, and there are only so many hours in the day.
Yes. My friends’ weddings make me think about work. I am a horrible, un-romantic sort of person.
Well, as Konstanin Paustovksy’s professor said once… “Not a single day without a written line.” Not a single day.