Opening a wardrobe to the scent of blossoming bouquets, spilt champagne and burnt out confetti is something every bridesmaid can relate to when looking back over their dresses from someone’s special day. But just like the lingering aroma of happy memories that come flooding back with one glance at the array of dresses before me, so does the inevitable question: could I be the notorious “always a bridesmaid never a bride?”
I have been to 11 weddings. Yes 11. For at least six of them, I have been a bridesmaid. Now, my love life has always been a questionable one, think Bridget Jones meets Sarah Millican. From the Daniel Cleavers of the world to the Patrick Verona’s, I’ve had the displeasure of being involved with them all. But is this a result of all the ear digging, gold spindle tiara’s and blistering satin shoes I’ve had laid upon me? Could the curse of the repetitious bridesmaid/inevitable spinster be real?
“You’re only young,” everyone tells me. “There’s plenty of time to settle down”. But in a generation full of hopeless romantics and a family full of annual weddings, it is hard to see anything but a bottle of wine and a houseful of cats as I stare at the sash belts and diamante neck lines.
Obviously, the idea of relationships and marriage didn’t bother me when I was smudging grass stains all over the petticoat of my ball gown style dress, while playing games of hide and seek in the grounds of one of the many venues I would attend. But the disasters that came with these outfits did.
For example, there was the rose pink strapless dress that would never stay up where it should have (which now I would struggle to even get a leg in).
Then there was the ballgown dress with the lilac sash that trailed to my toes, almost tripping me over with every step I took to the sound of the Wedding March.
And least forgetting my diamante stone studded shoes, which scratched the back of my legs like cats claws as I danced the whole way through the Macarena, Saturday Night dance and the Cha Cha Slide (an acquired skill I happen to be very proud of).
But what seemed like the end of the world then, because who doesn’t consider a lost bobby pin or a ripped underskirt a big deal, has become almost insignificant next to the problems I now find staring back at me in the shape of chiffon and netted garments. However, despite the pessimist in me, I do find joy in looking at the shades of mauve-y purples, dusk rose pink and the of course the monotonous burgundy that hang in my wardrobe. For all they are a metaphor for love and soul mates and “the one”, they also represent the memories of an unforgettable day spent with loved ones and of course the sympathy plus one invite (aka your best friend).
But were all these memories worth it for an eternal relationship with Revels and the sound of Michael Buble’s Christmas album (yes, I do mean all year round)? Or could it be I’m just an over dramatic lonely student who’s had a few knock-backs but has the perfect ending round the corner. Regardless of the outcome, at least I can always pretend…
