Heading to a Wedding 3.11.24

I frequently describe my head as being inhabited by a hamster. Not a hamster rooting around in the sawdust, or nibbling a delicious peanut, but a hamster perpetually juiced and forever speeding in a pink plastic wheel.

It was this particular image that was drilling its way into the backs of my eyeballs as I stared Tom’s bedroom ceiling. It was morning, 9 minutes before my alarm. A weak light had begun to make its way through the layers of broken glass. My overworked mind forced the light into a race between it and my alarm. The goal was to see whether it could reach the much-neglected ceiling rose in the centre of the room before my alarm went off. The ceiling rose, which still managed to appear graceful despite being the victim of a landlord special, remained unamused by my theoretical race between light and time. 

‘I can’t lie here anymore.’

Out we go. There’s no use lying here thinking about all the things I left until this morning, may as well get started. Off goes the duvet and hefty Ikea blanket, and I gingerly slip out into the cool air. The only thing standing between the interior of this room and the wild, wet, Welsh winter is a vastly overworked and undersealed wooden door. I stretch my arms towards the mellow light dappling the ceiling, if you’re interested time had won my hypothetical race, the light remained centimeters from the still unbothered ceiling rose. I eked my way past our last line of defense between us and the damp country outside, a dilapidated conservatory, which had more plant life growing through the rafters than I have ever managed to successfully care for. As the house becomes ever more neglected by its landlord, even a light drizzle feels like the clouds are hanging above your bed, threatening to soak you. The radiators are useless, they do nothing to hold off the passive moisture and you are barely protected by the ancient bedcovers. Thankfully for my poor freezing toes, my brain is far too focused on my to-do list for the next hour and a half to notice how positively damp the floor was.

I stumble through a maze of shoes and abandoned socks towards the door. Tiptoeing as best as I could while half asleep so as not to disturb the snoozing pile of blankets. I did consider stirring them to get organized as I showered, but as I round the bed I catch a glimpse of what I can only describe as total relaxation. All that was visible was a little face, framed by blankets and a mop of hair, mouth mildly agape, and whose breathing was reminiscent of a stuffy dormouse. I cannot bring myself to stir this picture of bliss and continue my journey towards the stairs.

Stretch, shower, whack the music on loud, and time to pack. In goes jeans, a jumper, and an indeterminate number of pants into a crumbling hold all. I have managed to amass a solid number of these Fred Perry bags, in various sizes, nothing secures brand loyalty like a hyper fixation.

To makeup or no makeup? It seems remiss to leave my face with only a layer of moisturizer when the rest of me will be all dolled up. Today marks the final assembly of months of careful curation. I have been periodically putting this outfit on bit by bit since the summer, and today, today it is finally wholly together.

As I yank tights over lightly damp legs I am trying to decide what the practical option was.

‘How far is it?’

‘You can’t sit in your outfit for 2 hours.’

‘No you’ll need to change there’.

“Change there” seems to be the verdict from everyone I have spoken to. The bride had whatsapped days ago to say that there were limited options for changing, so arriving already in kitted out would be advisable. Everyone else, disagreed. In the midst of the conversations, I agreed.

I said,

‘Yeah, no, I’ll find a room or something! I won’t go dressed, imagine if we have to stop for petrol!’

I even entertained the notion of putting just my tights on, and the logistics of changing subtly in a carpark, dusting off the skills I picked up changing for PE in primary school classrooms.

But who am I kidding? All this agreeing and pretending to worry about being seen all dressed up on a Sunday morning was empty nattering. In reality, it was never in question. I was wearing this carefully curated chocolate brown outfit, in its entirety, for as long as the day lasted.

I don’t even need to glance at myself in the mirror, I know I look good. The rarity of such an occasion is not lost on me. The sleeves of this mini dress are positively angelic, a light brown, transparent, pleated dream floating gently from my shoulder to my wrists. The same material encased the burnished gold underdress, falling just above my knees, and glowing in the grey light of an early autumnal morning. It is quite literally, the perfect party dress.

It has lived many lives I’m sure, hailing from the mid to late 1960s, and eventually finding itself listed for £18 on a second hand clothing site. Upon arrival it was encased in tissue paper stained a nicotine yellow with age. Or perhaps the years of cigarette stench that clung to the fabric had leached into its wrapping. Suitably, it arrived the morning after we had celebrated our friends’ 30th Birthday, staying out well into the wee hours of the morning. I had to maneuver myself very slowly, mindfully even, to prevent disturbing the acidic pool in my stomach as I pulled the dress over my knees. The foggy ache in my brain battled against my being vertical, but even so I was determined to get it on, to see whether this purchase would stick. By the grace of some ancient deity, the loose layers of light fabric fell in a perfect bell shape, allowing space for food and crucially, scope for dancing. But by hell did it reek. Nothing a trip to a dry cleaners couldn’t fix though and soon, after a short weeks’ wait it was returned to me in all its uncreased splendor, now only slightly stained, and with only the faintest whiff of musty wardrobes still clinging to it.

Today is going to be rather surreal, it’s a wedding day. Not mine, but a close friends, and I have had the honor of being anointed a bridesmaid. I haven’t been a bridesmaid since I was about 7, maybe younger, and cannot really remember the occasion if I’m honest. As it was a family wedding for some distant relative I can only assume they asked my mum, and all the other parents of small children in attendance, if we would all like to be a part of the day. I imagine it involved walking down an aisle with a basket of petals, chucking them dutifully by the tiny handful. Or is that a flower girl, maybe I was that? Either way, this time, I was aware of the task, and genuinely rather excited about the whole thing. 

I chucked a poncho over shoulders and headed for the door, hoping the November air will not be terribly bitter. Off I totter downstairs, quietening the Hendrix as I push open Tom’s bedroom door, expecting a fully suited and booted boyfriend ready to head out the door. This is not what was waiting for me. Unpacked, undressed, unprepared. In my head were set to leave in 3 minutes. We were not going to make my self imposed deadline.