Considering that marriage isn’t necessarily a life ambition of mine, I’ve done my fair share of wedding time. Fortunately, for the sake of keeping things interesting, only a small proportion of these have stuck to traditional western white dresses, bouquets, finger food and never-ending champagne.
At ten I picked my own bridesmaid dress – a beautiful white twelve layered, sequined bodice white number complete with puffy sleeves and hundreds white felt hearts. Luckily it was an Italian wedding and the bride upstaged me by at least a dozen layers of taffeta and several cans of hair spray. At 18, to the day in fact, I possibly caused the unemployment of a poor Indian waiter who tried to serve me cranberry juice and found himself at eye level with my chest and unable to hold on to his tray of drinks. I moved on from the cranberry and stuck to the finest French champagne followed up by fluro green tequila served in test tube holders.
So when the pink ribboned invitations arrived, complete with a request for contributions, I was pretty confident that this wedding would come no closer to the ones I’ve read about in Cosmo.
