Sometimes, when I’m talking to the twenty-something girls I work with, it’s fun to tell them horror stories about my wedding.
What? Did someone throw up on the dance floor?
Did your husband grope the maid of honour? The best man?
Did your limo driver get pinged for being over the limit?
No, it was much worse than that. Take a deep breath, girls …
• My dress was made by the mum of one of my school friends. I bought the fabric from a shop in the city, tore a pic from a magazine and Mrs Stolz ran it up on her Pfaff.
• The lady who lived across the street when I was growing up offered to make a veil for me. I’m not a veil kinda girl, but I wore it.
• My mother-in-law-to-be offered to make a tiered fruit cake with marzipan icing. Like most sane people, I hate fruitcake.
At this point the girls I’m talking to wonder if I was:
(a) So desperate to be off the shelf I’d say yes to anything.
(b) Putting together a wedding on $50 as if it was a cruel new reality TV show – Broke Brides Of Brisbane.
(3) Like overly milky tea: weak, with no taste.
The answer is none of the above. I was simply happy to be marrying this particular fella.
And fifteen years later, looking at the pictures, I see none of the hokeyness, just wedding photos much like anyone else’s.*