bride « mental dexterity

Dear world, I would like a book deal.

I recently read this article about one woman’s journey kicking and screaming down the aisle. Well, if you read the article you will realise two things. The first is that the author’s new husband chooses not to adhere to the old adage that blue and green should never be seen…and the second is that the author, Lucy Mangan, really doesn’t have much to contribute to the world other than a run of the mill ex-Bridget Jones story. Oh Lucy, so you never thought you’d get married…until you met the man who actually asked? No, really. Go figure. Who’d have thunk it. Sorry, but isn’t that generally the way it goes? Or at least that’s the ‘fingers crossed’ way things should go before reaching an over the hill moment and settling.

The third thing you’d realise is that someone, somewhere out there, will pay five quid to read the extended version of Lucy’s book, The Reluctant Bride.

Actually, Lucy, why did you get married? It was only while doing research on the author, having read the article with no regard for the byline, that I realised Ms Mangan, or is it Mrs Mangan, is the same columnist whose obnoxious articles feature at the back of the Guardian Weekend magazine, which I otherwise enjoy alongside breakfast and tea in bed. I stopped reading her articles after the one where she outlined the differences between herself and her husband with disdain dressed up as humour, with one relapse being her Christmas article – read list of ‘humourous’ and probably ‘fake’ emails between her various family members.

Anyway, back to the issue at hand. I am, as is evident by my blog, a newlywed. Prior to this I was convinced that no one in their right mind would be interested in marrying me, and ever so close to, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, accepting this as fact. It wasn’t about self loathing. It wasn’t about attracting the attention and sympathy of my friends and relatives. It was the sum of having spent six years in singledom. Yep. Six long and lonely years…

My first boyfriend was an Irishman I met overseas. He has a degree in philosophy from Trinity College and was older than me with dark hair and pasty white skin. It lasted all of about three months but I was in love. Or so I thought at the time. I was somewhere between eighteen and nineteen. He left the country. Then I left the country. And that was the end of that.

Then I went to college and met no one. I was both working and studying full-time and barely had time for much else. Unfortunately, at this time I was possibly the fittest I have ever been. Wasted. I had taken up the gym to deal with stress and rewarded myself a can of coke once a week as my only treat. And I somehow managed to stick to that regime. Then I graduated.

Some time after I moved to Sydney I signed up with a dating agency. It cost a pretty penny and really wasn’t all it thought it was. I’m almost certain they just rented the reception room of a swanky office block to appear convincing. After taking my hard-earned cash they told me they would use a technical and psychosocial process to locate my perfect match. Unfortunately their sales pitch fell down when they mentioned that for my dollars I got six dates in six months. Hardly a precision process then.

If I’m honest, I can barely remember the six dates I did go on, which doesn’t go well for the fellas involved. They really didn’t leave much of an impression but for the one bloke who decided he’d like to take my number and even went to some effort to suggest we get together the following Friday and that he’d call me. By Wednesday I had heard nothing. I texted him and asked what the deal was. His response? He’d had the chance to think about it and decided that I wasn’t someone he wanted to see again. Thanks for that. Now, I wasn’t exactly heart-broken. The man was nice enough but there was no instant spark. What I would have appreciated was a ‘thanks but no thanks’ text politely letting me down. I was probably disappointed at the time, but not much else.

There has been no revolving door of men in my life. No six month guy, or two month guy, or even one night guy. I’m not a Sex in the City girl. I don’t understand chasing tails. Probably because, if I think about it, I was chasing rainbows. Something mythical and perfect but entirely unreachable. Or so I thought.

I fell in love once more before I met my husband. I fell in love with someone I had met through work. He was tall, dark(ish), older, wiser and handsome. But he came with a Mack truck worth of baggage, including a child. I was harbouring the school girl crush that I’d forgotten to have during my time at the all girls Catholic high school I went to. If I’m honest it probably went on for a year or so before I confronted it. He knew. I knew he knew. I was embarrassed but got it out of my system…eventually.

My husband is an Irishman I met in Sydney. He has a degree in Philosophy from Trinity College and is older than me with dark hair and pasty white skin. Sounds familiar but it’s nothing more than coincidence. The day I met Mister Emmet I was probably feeling a more than a little sorry for myself. The sixth year of my singledom was coming to an end and I was commiserating entering a seventh. Two weeks later we met again. Overnight my world changed. I enjoy a romcom as much as the next girl but I never really believed in love at first sight. Or second sight as the case may have been.

But that was what I got. Immediately I knew this was something special and totally different to what I had felt before. What I thought was love. I was wrong. I didn’t know then where it would go, but I knew it was worth doing something about. And then he left. Back to the other side of the world. Back to Ireland.

The funny thing is I can pinpoint the moment I knew this was probably it. That he was the mythical one. And all of this after less than a weekend of contact! He phoned me. He phoned me twice, actually. The first call went to voicemail. I checked the mail. ‘I’m using the last of my coins to call you, I’ll try again’. And he did. And I answered. And I cried. Just a little bit.

And the rest is a story for another day.

But unlike Ms Mangan professes, I was not dragged kicking and screaming down the aisle, I just didn’t expect it would happen to me. I guess sometimes that which you least expect, happens!

Disclaimer: Look, I have nothing personal against Lucy Mangan and wish her all the best before her book gets remaindered. I’m sure she’s a lovely person and very happily married to her husband, Christopher. Oh yes, and I also have a penchant for the Daily Mail. I’m sorry, it’s a weakness I’m not quite ready to deal with.