Always a Bridesmaid

As you may have heard, Laura is getting married soon. Really soon actually. I can tell it’s getting closer by the number of times a week day I get an email with an excel spreadsheet attached or a picture of her photo-shopped into a new sash or pair of earrings. It’s the worst adorable.

This is my 4th time up the aisle (should have been my 5th, but that is a story for another post) so, I’ve got this down by now. People seem to love to bitch about being a bridesmaid, and I always find it strange. First, aren’t these people you’re doing this for your closest friends? If they are complete bridezilla, egomaniac assholes then maybe you need to reconsider the kinds of people you’re friends with. Or maybe you too are an egomaniac asshole – you know, birds of a feather and all that.

Second, you understand the completely voluntary nature of bridesmaidery, right? If you can’t stomach the idea of throwing a shower, or wearing a dress you maybe didn’t pick, or helping your friend drunkenly pee at 1 am because her organza tulle princess ball gown is totally not urination friendly, then just don’t agree to do it. There are a number of ways to bow out gracefully. You can site finances, scheduling conflicts, a satin allergy. Or, and this is the crazy one,  if this person is really your friend, you could be honest and say that while you love her and want to be a part of her day, you just know you’d be a shit bridesmaid and don’t want to put that strain on your relationship so, ‘no’.

Anyway, I love a wedding so I always say yes. Literally, if you called me – yes, you Internet stranger who is potentially just trying to lure me to a basement to kill me – and asked me to be in your wedding I would probably at the very least consider it. Such is the pull of the nuptial ceremony. I just like it. I like getting dressed up, I like the anxiety and excitement of the morning, I like drinking a mimosa in a limo or party bus, I like taking pictures and dancing all night. Annnnd I guess I like the idea of people taking a meaningful vow to love each other for ever and ever amen.

Laura’s wedding has been a bit different than the others I’ve stood in. Previously, everyone was local, if anything I was the sole out of towner. So there were always a bunch of showers and parties and gatherings leading up to the big day. Which is fun, but somehow not having all those little meet ups before hand is making the big day here feel bigger. Laura’s bridesmaids and old friends and both or their families are spread across the country and over seas so they haven’t had the opportunity to have a lot of the other celebrations. Which, I’m sure has made her a little sad. But in a more positive light this lack of lead in gatherings will mean that Laura and James’ wedding day won’t just be the thank God it’s over culmination of a bunch of other parties and celebrations, it will be the party and celebration. 

Also, we get to pick our own dresses! There are a few guidelines: Black – because how easy/classy/awesome is that? We must also be able to wear a longish dangley pendant she got us as a gift – because awww, presents! And don’t look like a whore in it – because she didn’t really say that, but I feel like it’s implied. I’m going to America next week to look for dresses. I’ll be bringing along my oddly compliant and fashion savvy boyfriend; we’ll take pics.

Below please find me in my previous bridesmaid attire. Please, feel free to post shots of your own shame um, joy in the comments. Please note that these are two different weddings, three years apart. And, yes, they’re both chocolate brown. Also note that there are literally zero pictures from my sisters wedding that aren’t completely humiliating, so, Internet, you don’t get to see those.

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Pasta and Cheese, Rejoice!

Last night may have just been boring Wednesday (Hump day! Less boring, right?), but it was the best night of my week because our favourite restaurant, Toscana re-opened after renovations! We hadn’t been since before Christmas so I was long over due for the Fried Manchego Cheese and Agniolotti. I have either personally eaten or dined with someone who has eaten almost everything on the menu and I’ve never heard a bad review. The service is great, the atmosphere is warm, dim and relaxed and they’ve got great wine and cocktails. Basically, it’s perfect. If you’re anywhere near Detroit or Windsor, I’d definitely recommend stopping by. Chef  Jonathan Reaume has earned a reputation as one of the areas best. Go ahead, make reservations!

I meant to take pics of my food and outfit. But I forgot. It was crazy busy and I was excited. Also, I’m a bad blogger. I promise to be much better in the future.

Conflict

So, blahblahblah we took a freakishly long break. We’re back now. For good. We think. Etc.

Annnnnyway.

Laura totally outed me in the last post and I hate her guts now.

I turn 30 in exactly 33 days. On the 14th of April I will cross the all important, though admittedly probably imaginary threshold into irrelevancy. Once you turn 30 you can no longer be taken seriously as ‘youthful.’ You are a legitimate grown ass person. Even if your job sucks and you’re not married and have no kids. You may not fully understand your credit card statements or how to do your taxes, but none of this matters. Hippies don’t trust you any more, and you are old.

Top 40 radio stations don’t cater to you. You can’t shop in Forever21 or Dynamite or buy super trendy, shoddily made accessories at Claire’s or Ardene. You’re only really allowed to go to an animated movie if you’re with an actual ‘youth’, unless of course you desire to be thought of as a creep. You can maybe still go to the cool bar, depending on the city you’re in. But you can be sure you’ll have to compete with youthful young ladies. In those trendy dresses with the sheer décolletage. Sure sure, if you were 29 it would be no big deal. We’re all in our twenties after all. But in 33 days? Well, in 33 day’s I’ll be 30. I’m pretty sure that when I wake up in 33 days (which by the way is also historically a very bad day:Lincoln was assassinated, Titanic hit the iceberg, and my grandfather fucking died on my 16th birthday) I will have brand new old person laugh lines, and a bunion, and probably a bad shoulder from an old football injury or whatever.

I’m joking, of course. I mean, mostly. 30 really does seem like the biggest numerical transition since I moved into double digits. The differences between 10 and 20 are so wildly obvious, it’s silly to even compare them. But moving from our twenties into thirties feels different. The twenties are this weird hybrid decade where you’re still really just a kid, at least for the first few years. You’re supposedly setting yourself up for your thirties and beyond. You stay out too late, don’t get hangovers, have no fear and you believe in the power of things. Things like positivity, and yoga and the healing properties of cookie dough ice cream. You also have more energy than any human person should. You go to class, you volunteer, you apply for all the jobs, you party. Everything is a possibility. And now as I inch closer to 30 (33 days), those things do seem, sadly I think, a little less a part of who I am. I do get hangovers, I don’t have boundless energy, I do feel limited. Worst of all I’ve realised cookie dough is a cruel joke played by the universe to make us both joyful and fat. What a drag, right? God. Sorry.

But wait! Don’t slit your wrists in a warm bath tub just yet!

In the last few months, as I’ve watched the 30th anniversary of my birth approach, I’ve thought a lot about what 30 might mean. But, I’ve realised that being 20 is also not that great. Everything may have been a possibility, but it was also terrifying. I didn’t go away to University, because I was too scared. I didn’t break up with my shitty boyfriend (two shitty boyfriends, actually) because I was too scared. Even more recently, I haven’t applied for or really chased a lot of opportunities, because I was too scared. Ten years later I’d hardly call myself brave, but I can pick up the phone to order a pizza or book a hotel room without literally writing out a script before hand.

There are a lot of benefits of being a little older. I don’t have to go to class any more. Honestly, I always really liked school. The academic atmosphere makes me feel special and a part of something important.You know what I don’t like though? 8 a.m. three hour classes and trudging across campus in a blizzard because fucking UWO wouldn’t cancel a damn class. Good luck with that shit undergraduates. Now I have to go to work. I don’t get graded arbitrarily and they pay me. Weird, right?

I still believe in the power of yoga and positivity. I have however also learned the power of accepting when things are shitty and telling someone to go to hell if I need to. Also, I will never be able to do crane pose. Them’s the breaks.

A lot of bad ass people get started in their thirties. Martha Stewart didn’t begin her career as the best person in the world at literally everything until her 30’s. Oprah got her own show at 30. My very own father started his business in his 30’s and more than two decades later is happier than ever. I myself plan to move out of my parents basement very soon. So, there is that.

Plus, total babes like Mila Kunis, Charlize Theron, Jessica Chastain and our own icon of wonder Duchess Kate don’t show outward sings of their impending laugh lines, bunions or sporting injuries, right? You can still be figureing your shit out at 30. Pretty much everyone is. Even the weirdos who do understand their credit card statements are struggling somehow, I know it. Most importantly though, you don’t magically turn into a disgusting old crone-pumpkin at the stroke if midnight either.

The bottom line: I’m feeling conflicted about Thirty. But I think I’ll be ok.

Look, I’ll let you know in 33 days. If you don’t hear from me, I guess you can find me in that warm tub we talked about.

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