So, next Friday at one o’clock, just after lunch, yours truly, this Andrew Colin A that write this, enters into a state of matrimony with this guy, Mark S, that I’ve been living with for two years. This guy who I met, and who stayed over for the first time a few days later, and who practically moved in a week after the first meeting.
Back then I lived in my Aunt’s cellar, and we made a little home for us there. Now we have a house, two dogs, a cat and a car. It seems like we’ve quickly acquired all the attributes necessary for a stereotypical bourgeois existence. As of yet, we do not have a house in France or Spain, and neither of us plays golf – though I do go to Floorball once a week. Mark does go to the gym once a week too.
Thinking about it, I have to laugh, really. All the things we said we wouldn’t do, we do. All those things we would do differently from our parents, we do in the same way. The worst part is that I quite enjoy this life we have, and I don’t really mind if I’m turning into a mini-dad, or that Mark is becoming awfully like his mum.
He’s even taken over her voluntarism down at the animal shelter, and he goes there once every week or once every fortnight. Then he comes home and the dogs and the cat get to smell all the strange animals he’s been in contact with.
Like I said yesterday, the pace has picked up, so now it feels as if we’re racing to next week. There’s always something that needs to be fixed, and something that needs to be ordered, and something that needs to be decided. The cake, the food, the beer and the chairs and tables, and the tents have all been ordered and confirmed. It only needs to be delivered.
Our tasks now is more of a social one; the plethora of relatives need to be pressed into a square hole while being a somewhat round peg. Beds must be found, hotel rooms must be sniffed out, and pets must be catered to. Northerners and southerners, and the Scots, need to get along. And the pub we have our reception at must be prepared. There are a lot of things.
There are little crises too. The suits we’ve ordered haven’t been delivered yet, so it has fallen on me to pester the tailor to get things ready, and I don’t like it so I’ve been overly aggressive toward the poor dear. Chop chop chop. Nothing is getting in the way, and everything must be perfect.
The days must be spent marshalling a dozen threads into one careening wagon train that must arrive at the site of our wedding without tipping over, running over guests, destroying the foods and drinks, and punting the officials into the lake upon arrival because we can’t stop.
Exciting times ahead, but the most defining feeling is this strange sense of pride. When I go out with him now, more than ever before, I puff up with this immense sense of pride that he’s going to be mine. Not just emotionally, but legally and in every way. The sense of pride is huge; taller than a mountain, wider than the sky, deeper than the ocean. I can’t imagine what I’ll feel once I say those two words ‘I do’ at the ceremony.
Update: This is the 666th post. I think the subject matter is suitable for such a number.