I’ve always figured that I’d get married some day, but mostly in that when I was really little and I imagined life, I noticed that everyone gets married and so will I sense.
And then I grew up, and I realised that the world is a big, bad place, designed for one purpose, and one purpose only:
To take every dream you have ever had and squeeze the life out of it until you drown like a beached whale.
And when I had this revelation, I resigned myself to the fate of every girl who has ever dreamed and then realised she was a closet gnostic: the old spinster with 17 cats, all named ridiculous cat names, like Oreo and Fluffy.
Now, granted, I may still have lots of cats with ridiculous names, but I won’t be a spinster.
Unless of course the groom to be spurns me, and I end up like Miss Havisham, alone in a room, wearing my yellowed wedding dress and watching spiders crawl across the rotted, decaying cake.
You never thought a post announcing engagement would include words like spider and decaying and beached whale, did you?
Well, that’s just how I roll.
Oh, and a note for the overly excited, who leave really long, disaster-filled messages on my voicemail, I did not say yes by text. That post was something else entirely.
It happened just the way I’ve seen in movies. We discussed it over dinner and came to a consensus, and then went shopping for a ring the next day.
Isn’t that how everyone does it?