So. It finally happened. I got old. Gah. GAH. (Birthdays, man. What horrific events they tend to be.)
Aside from my current haghood, I've recently seen one of my best friends get married. Actually, I was in the wedding - bridesmaid, baby. Possibly one of the funnier moments of the day was when I was with the bridal party and we were all getting our hair done, and my hairdresser took a look at me, then a look at my masses of hair, and seemed to deflate in horror. "Oh my god," she said, "that is a LOT of hair." (It is a lot of hair; at times I've felt like Cousin It from the Addams' family, or perhaps as if I were the host body for a parasitic life-form attached to my head.)
Anyways, anyways: Bestest Bud was Maid of Honour (she and Friend About To Engage In Matrimonial Acts - henceforth to be known as FATEIMA, though as an acronym it seems to imply whole charitable organizations rather than one individual - have been friends since the womb, literally, as their mothers were pregnant at the same time) and flew up from Victoria, and the other two bridesmaids were FATEIMA's little sisters. It was a thoroughly hectic day, followed by a thoroughly hectic evening, concluded by a very exhausted midnight/early morning of climbing out of elaborate dresses and undoing elaborate hair-do's. The amount of bobby pins stuck in my head was truly staggering - and painful - which I found out as I, half-asleep, dug them from out of my cranium.
It was a beautiful wedding and I'm glad to have been part of it (and my speech at the reception had a pretty good crowd, which is splendiferous), but at the same time - gosh, it was strange! Thinking about FATEIMA being married - and ME as a BRIDESMAID - I mean, the last time I checked we were both ten year olds running around by the lakeshore, eating hot dogs and attempting to drown various siblings. With that wedding done, and my friend a Mrs. instead of a Ms., and my latest birthday barring me forever from teen-hood - I feel old. And creaky. Literally - my joints crack and grumble ominously every time I move around. I blame my mother's genetics: every time she takes so much as a step, it's like listening to a skeleton climb its way out of a grave, all rattling bones and rasping joints. She blames it on the lack of calcium. I tell her to drink more milk. She tells me (tartly) she's not a cow. I tell her cows drink water. Ahhh, ye olde family debates, they ever degenerate into idiocy.
In other news, I am contemplating starting a mini-series of blog-posts on women/being a woman/society and women/etcetera. It may be slightly full of vitriol. So! If this is not anyone's cup o' tea, steer clear for at least the next two months.