I sometimes wonder, usually late at night when I am unable to sleep, due to too much caffeine and too little romantic pillow talk (last night we discussed the origins of the humble sprout, apparently they originated in Ireland, like most things) if it is likely I will be married before my face starts to resemble a walnut.
At the rate the Irish one gets around to things (faulty light switches, smoke alarms and fixing the washer) probably not, which unfortunately can only mean one thing.
Botox. (And no clean clothes for months.)
These are the thoughts that tumble across my skull as I toss and turn in bed trying to ignore the (Irish) snoring and disregard the tugging from my darker self, willing me to lie there and regret everything I have ever done in my life.
Insomnia ain’t nice especially when your insomnia taunts you, so while lying there the other night regretting a cake I made, which gave everyone the most god almighty shits, when I was 17, I decided to try and coerce my brain in to thinking about something a little more pleasant.
Inadvertently, because of this, as the nights have turned in to days, and then back in to nights, my wedding plans have taken flight.
The one small snag being, he hasn’t asked. Yet.
But it is ok, as I have decided, that if and when he finally gets around to dropping to one knee, (Yes, my proposal is planned too) if my face looks like a gnarled tree, I will allow myself some Botox.
I do believe in growing old gradually and of course, I do believe in growing old gracefully. (Although I also love Donatella Versace for her complete denial of the passing of time. If I had her money, my belly button would already be a chin dimple. Believe me.)
I completely believe though, that lines can make women look beautiful, they tell a story, they show laughter, they show pain, they show immense strength but most of all, to me, they show courage.
A life being lived.
But, soppiness aside, here is the issue I currently have.
I seem to have caught some sort of era ignoring condition, which is making me grow old before my time.
I am only 32 but on some days I am sure people in the street assume I am Addison’s grandma.
Hell, on some days I feel old enough to be his grandma. (And the stoop doesn’t help I suppose. It’s that bloody pram though. It’s too low! And seriously? Car seat in the back? With the weight of this child? My back in in bits!! Never mind looking like a walnut as I walk down the aisle! I will need a Zimmer soon!)
It may be conjunctivitis, this condition, as according to my not very proficient GP, it does seem to be, as my eyes are all swollen and puffy.
(What is it with Gp’s these days? Are they so scared of being sued they now refuse to diagnose? Excuse me Dr. Quack; ‘I seem to have a baby coming out of my bum, could I be in labour?’ ‘Well you certainly seem to be!’ Ergh!)
It may be called Lazy-itis too, according to the Irish one, as some days I do wear the same clothes from the day previous due to (THE BLOODY WASHER STILL BEING BROKEN!) Tiredness.
But if I were to be completely honest, and I usually am, I actually think the condition I have definitely caught causing me to look less yummy mummy and more scummy granmummy has been with me a lot longer than the last few weeks.
It started around the same time the postnatal condition I have suffered with, did. (I.e.; Post NATALLY.)
68 hours in to labour, the Irish one ready to take a blunt fork and perform an impromptu caesarean section at my sweary, teary, insistence, noticed a shock of my hair, right at the back, had turned completely white.
Since then, my natural highlights, as I like to call them, have been coming thick and fast, even hair dye doesn’t cover them. (Spray paint does.)
Since being hospitalized, Eczema has ravaged, chomped and chewed my poor fingers away to that of a 90 year old, dashing my dreams of being a hand model, and the only way I can hide the bags under my eyes is by touching them up with black makeup, so it looks like they are part of my look.
As if I still have a look. (Dodgy old rocker is what I seem to be pulling off these days… is it me? Or does that sound rude?…moving on… )
I really don’t know what the condition is, but every time I look at my face in the mirror, I seem to have grown another crevice.
The last one to materialise runs right across my forehead from left to right, (or right to left, if you are Japanese) and after a few minutes of screaming, for the first time in my life, I flirted with the idea of a fringe, before I Google searched face lifts and affordable on a shoe string surgical enhancement.
Botox of course, being a much safer option than a fringe in the Irish One’s opinion.
His reasoning being that my chin is too big for a fringe, (nice huh?) and the effects of Botox, should it all go “awfully” wrong and I end up with shelf at the top of my face, wouldn’t last long enough for it too make too much of a negative impact and hey! At least he would have somewhere to rest his brew while I was…
Who was it that said romance was dead? (Oh and FYI? That NEVER happens.)
Yes ladies and gents, this is the man I want to marry.
And yes, questioning his motives for our relationship, green snot pouring from my eyes, face all bright red and wrinkly from an hour in the bath and my knickers holding my hair back, I am probably doing myself no favours.
But I want to know you know?
Its not that I don’t already think I will be
stuck with him, enjoying his company until death do us part anyway, and it isn’t that I plan on leaving him if he doesn’t propose soon, it’s just…
I need something to think about (Read; stare at in the form of diamond) at night instead of the long days ahead.
And er, yeah, I suppose I love him.
I didn’t dream of a wedding as a little girl, in fact I never believed in marriage until recently, I just never thought it could work, that a legal piece of paper with your names on it could ever or would ever make a difference to the inevitable. (That you break up, hate each other and unsuccessfully plot each other’s deaths at least twice a year, from a far, for the rest of your lives…. In case you were wondering, my parents don’t get on.)
But now, after 18 weeks of therapy, 132 stiches in my vaganzza, a year of absolute hell and the love still going strong… (ish)… despite all infrequent ups and soul destroying lows, I want the bloody fairytale all the Disney films promised me.
I actually believe we could have it, check me out, I believe in love.
(You can stick your fingers down your throat now, it is ok, I am.)
We’ve had our bit with the villains, as far as I am concerned, and now I want a great big flipping dress, a teary declaration of our love, and a baileys fountain that you dip chocolate in.
I want to thank him, for everything he has supported me through, as he really has, by giving him a promise I will be around to enjoy our future.
And I want a hen night/hen world tour. (I will be honest, most nights this is what I can be found planning. Rio De Janiero, Australia for 6 weeks and Route 66 have all been on the ‘When I finally win the lottery and finally get married/ Hen night’ list.)
I want a party and I want to be able to say I have been committed in to something other than a mental house.
I want him. (Even if he doesn’t fix the washer.)
So married ladies, help me out here please.
Do I need to stop wearing my trackies to bed and bitching about his razor being on the floor? (AGAIN!!!!!!) Do I need to start cooking steak and giving him a foot massage? Do I need to plaster my face with make up every day and hold my trumps in again? Do I need to avoid onion breath and change Addison’s every bum, while chasing his every whim and making his dreams come true? Do I need to start allowing him to have a poo while I am in the bath? (In the toilet, just to clarify, turns out there is a limit, and that would be mine!!!)
Whatever it takes, I will do it, (within reason!) as I have spent the last few weeks planning this between the hours of 10pm and 5am.
The longer it takes the more outlandish it is becoming, so really, more fool him.
Brazil at sunrise, is where I currently am, him wearing a toga, me looking like a brazilian goddess (courtesy of Tantastic in Bolton!) and believe me I am completely focused on getting the party of my dreams!!!
I mean man.
Of course, hahaha, I mean man.
But just in case, it takes longer than planned…
How much is Botox and does anyone have Donatella’s number, or a winning lottery fund they want to share?
(Route 66 would be a hoot girls, marriage or no marriage!!)
*The condition seems to be known by most as; Mother (posh mum, still harassed as child will only use this when child wants something.) Mom (American mum.) Mommy (Still American mum- and yeah I’m still jealous.) Mum, (Stop drinking cold tea immediately and get me what I need!!) Mummy (Dogs body but loved.) Motherhood (film.) Motherhood (makes you look gnarly, and not in a cool surfer way.)
See this woman? She is 18.
She is beautiful, there is no denying that, but maybe, just maybe, she should have kept her trumps in a bit longer, much like me.
No ring on has she?
I’ll invite her on our girls trip. She deserves it.