Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Weddings freak me out

My baby brother — the one who, when I moved out, had that scraggly hockey hair and communicated in grunts with his equally monosyllabic friends — is getting married.

I simultaneously want to pull out the streamers, throwing him a congratulation party, and whisk him away for a weekend, asking him if there is really nothing else he wanted to do with his life first.

My parents are over the moon. He’s thrilled. She — and she’s a lovely girl — is already eagerly wedding planning. I’m happy for them. Really. But it’s also triggered every neurotic bone in my body.

First, I’m scared for them. I believe in marriage, still. I don’t think I’ve yet become that bitter divorcee who says, “Bah, men, who needs them?” But I too got married young and felt like I was missing out.

I spent my relationship and marriage feeling like a supporting player in my own life. I was the backup, the caregiver, the one to set up the punchline for someone who needed to be the centre of attention. At all
times. I learned not to let that spotlight waver, biting my tongue, not making jokes or adding to the conversation. I retreated, because I was young and I loved him and, I told myself, he needed it more than I did.

They’re not the same couple we were. They’re lower key. Less fiery. If we were a fireworks display, they’d be the even burn of a campfire. I think it’s easier, maybe even happier, that way. They don’t have the same problems of stability, emotions and big, conflicting, competitive dreams that got in their way.

But loving someone means giving up a bit of yourself. And marrying them means linking your needs, wants and plans together, sacrificing those goals that aren’t shared, at least, you tell yourself, temporarily while the finances, priorities and whatnot work themselves out. Those shelved plans become daydreams, fantasies and, finally, regrets.

Go climb Everest, I want to tell him. Go on an epic road trip with your friends. Get away from the grocery shopping, the coupon clipping, the routine. If you still miss each other then, when it’s not a predetermined part of your normal day, go reach your goals, realize your dreams and then start a beautiful life together. But take a little time to be selfish. Do something just for you. Because marriage is supposed to be long, and your unburdened 20s are short.

And then, the camera focuses on me. The bitter, divorced older sister, who is already getting sympathy over her sadly unattached status. My parents aren’t aware of any dating I’ve done, because, those boys were supporting players in my narrative, coming in to teach me a lesson, lend a hand, make me laugh, but I never wanted to offer my family any illusion I’d be bringing them home to meet them.

I could have told them about the way the one’s smile made me weak in the knees — that perfect mix of boyish mischief and disarming, why can't I keep my hands off you charm. The one who was so far off my established type — and believe me, I have a type — occupying a world so different from my own that those treasured pockets of time spent together enthralled me. The boy who remains my 'What if', an impossible, unachievable perfect regret, who I still make a little sigh when I talk about. The one who disarmed me with his goofy charm and made the hours disappear.

But then, of course, I'd have to tell them when it falls apart. That he'd moved on. That I got bored. That we worked so much better as friends. And then my mother, with her sympathies, would make me feel worse about not caring about them more. A tear shed here, a curse word, perhaps, and for me the mourning process was over and these men resumed their rightful spots in my life as friends, confidants, purveyors of drinks and books to borrow. I love these men, but I was never in love with these men. I never wanted to love them, and they, I don’t think, ever wanted my love in return. My affection, yes, and my company. But that's just not something I can explain to my small town, WASPy family.

So, instead, they think I live a spinster's life, curling up in front of the TV when I arrive home in the wee hours of the morning, with a bowl of cereal, some flannel pjs and a wish that the phone would ring. I tell them about my ‘fake boyfriends’ — not to be confused with the Fake Boyfriend, a lovely gent who is still in my life with absolutely zero romantic repercussions — wonderful, smart, charming men with whom I share meals, evenings, and cookies with absolutely zero tension or electricity. Men who lend me a hand, a shoulder to cry on and big, enveloping hugs when I need them.

But these are not the men upon whom wedding hopes are pinned. (Though my mother persistently wonders why none of them find me attractive or charming enough to even try to date. She also counsels me to marry any one of them in a decade’s time, to avoid the onset of crazy cat ladyness.)

So, part of me fears the wedding for the questions. The pity over how sad and alone I must be in that big, soulless Upper Canadian city they call “Taranta."

I have anxiety over finding the right date — because flying stag leaves me unprotected, a lesson learned, and suffered, as I was hung out to dry at my grandmother’s funeral. He must be tall. Look good in a suit. A decent dancer. Able to hold his liquor. Charming enough to put friends and family at ease, but aloof enough to prevent the, “Hey, you might be next,” banter. I have two years to find such a person. I don’t have high hopes.

And, perhaps most of all, I fear the disappointment. The fact that I’ve been there, done that and all the hope for me is lost. Worse even than the pressure to stop living it up single style is when they believe it will never happen for me again. That there’s not that hope of falling in love and starting a fresh life with someone, because I’m unlovable, unyielding and unable to compromise. That my mother believes I’ll never find someone able to keep up with me, and I’ll never slow down for anyone.

I don’t know why I find it so heartbreaking. I can’t imagine ever wanting the big white dress and updo and whole to-do ever again. But I guess I’d like to believe that the option still exists. That relationships aren’t a dead-end alley that I’ll never venture into again. That, like all in all other parts of my life, I have endless possibilities when it comes to romance.

I have up to two years to brace myself. Through the planning, the conversations, the wedding comparisons. Two years to come to terms with the way they see me. Two years to find a date. And two years to find a stylish dress to hide a flask under for the wedding day.

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