If, ten years ago, you told me I'd own a phone that costs literally thousands more than most others and that it would be made of glass, I'd laugh at you. I'm not an idiot, I'd tell you. Who buys a glass phone?! I'd ask you.
Cut to: me, yesterday:
Don't be fooled; Apple is a cruel lover who waits until you feel secure before she stabs you in the heart. With a shard of glass from your own blinking cell phone.
I'm pretty sure it's an unwritten rule: if you have a blog, once you get engaged, your blog will be filled with your wedding plans (you know, the ones no one else cares about). You may have noticed this blog is void of those posts. If you think it's because I don't want to irritate you with the mundane details of my life, you're wrong. I'm not above annoying you at all. It's simply because I've been stuck in Phase 2 of the Three Phases of Wedding Planning.
At least, we (Stevi -- bestie, bridesmaid and fellow bride -- and I) think there are three stages. (Stevi, the gem she is, gently coached me from Phase 2 to 3.)
So, for your edification: The Three Stages of Wedding Planning.
Phase 1: Elation
You're engaged! Change your Facebook relationship status! Use "fiancé" indiscriminately! PINTEREST ALL THE TIME!
You've got a ring on your finger and, suddenly, you're talking about escort cards and Save the Dates. You may be the bride-to-be stereotype you once laughed at but, who cares? You're getting married!
Good for you, excited one. Just know this: it won't last.
Phase 2: Apathy
You dread the question: "how's the planning going?" Because, honestly, you aren't that bothered. It's not that you don't want to get married (you'd get married in a court house today!) or that you don't want a wedding (meaningful service, family, friends, dancefloor, champagne, CAKE = win!) -- it's just that you're not convinced the hydrangeas need to be the exact shade of cream to match your vintage parasols. Also: why do you need vintage parasols?
You'll probably get political: damn you, society! I won't lose weight for this shindig! Your Western patriarchy sickens me!
And, most importantly, you're tempted to tell your mother the two words she's been waiting to hear all along: "you decide".
A word of caution here, apathetic one: don't do it. Because after Phase 2, comes...
Phase 3: Unadulterated Joy
In a few months you get to marry the person you love most. Marriage! Like a life-long slumber party with tax benefits!
It doesn't matter if nothing matches or if your arms don't look like Michelle Obama's. It's going to be the most perfect day anyway.
Suddenly, you're happy to make decisions on flowers and table settings and -- most importantly -- cake. You want everything to be beautiful and perfect. But even if it isn't; you'll be surrounded by your family, future-family and friends. It will be perfect regardless.
So that's where I am right now. Are there more phases we don't know about?
Also! I'm curious, have you always dreamed of your wedding? I'm embarrassed to admit: I have; down to little details. *Loses feminist points immediately*
You read Jess in Belgium, right? After reading this post I started thinking about my work space. It's impractical for mine to look like those Vanity Fair desks (although I wish it did!) but I figured I could make a few changes that made my space a little cheerier.
I work right next to Cape Town's famous flower sellers so, every Monday morning, I pick up a fresh bunch of flowers for my desk. More accurately, on Sunday nights I fish R30 out of Gideon's wallet for the flowers he's going to "buy" me the next morning. R30 for flowers, people. Flower sellers FTW.
Here's the past six weeks or so. Seven weeks, actually. Those carnations lasted for two.
There's probably a lesson in here somewhere about small joys or surrounding yourself in beauty or whatever. The only thing I'm learning from this blog post is that -- after making fun of filters -- Instagram's got me using them on my ALL my photos. Whoops.
PS That lovely piece of art was a gift from Gideon's mom We found it in Darling and I loved it immediately. I can't make out the artist's signature; I wish I knew who made it.
A few Fridays ago I went off to film a bronze pour and Gideon came with me. He's a dork for things like that (the furnace gets to 1300 degrees, Jerusha! Do you know how hot that is?!) so I knew he'd have fun. It was incredible to watch and, afterwards, we found a room full of discarded wax moulds floating in ominous looking water. I should have seen it as a sign of bad things to come...
I started feeling... odd in the car on the way home. A little gross and unsettled but, truthfully, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and can't be trusted to determine whether I'm genuinely ill or just hungry/tired/sad/bored. To be safe, I started complaining about the strange feeling immediately because that's what people with hypochondriacal tendencies do.
Turns out, I had a full-on bout of food poisoning which hit almost as soon as we opened my front door.
Now, I'm not a stupid girl. Gideon is going to have to deal with quite a bit of crazy in our married life so I thought it best not to frighten him off with projectile vomit before he says I do. So I locked myself in the bathroom.
Gid, hearing me puke, bangs on door: Let me in!
Me, mortified, also dying: No! *pukes* I am disgusting *pukes more* and now I smell bad *pukes*
Gideon: We're getting married! I am going to see you have babies!
Me: We're never having babies because I am going to die! *pukes*
When I eventually crawled out the bathroom, I managed to lie on the floor, in the fetal position, crying, for a good 30 minutes. When Gideon recounted this story to my mother he got the best advice she could muster: "we probably should have told you this before. She gets dramatic sometimes."
But really, guys, I thought I was going to DIE. Food poisoning is the worst.
Anyway, here's a picture from before I spent 12 hours on the bathroom floor:
I get to marry that hottie! He's also not afraid of puke. Score!
While we're talking about pain and suffering! I actually knitted something!
It took an eternity and is full of holes. Waa waaaaa.
Inspired by crafty friends who can't get enough of knitting, crocheting and basically being too dang handy for their own good, I thought Hey! Knitting! What a great idea!
It was not a great idea. Let this serve as a cautionary tale, lest you have grand ideas of making things from scratch.
Three hours, countless stifled curses and two cramping hands later; this was all I had to show for myself:
And that, dear friend, is why we have Woolworths. And Woolworths is where I will continue buying my knitwear.
A few knitting-related thoughts:
1) I was trying to knit while watching The Killing (have you seen it? Do! It's excellent), it's a little tough to read subtitles and look down at your hands while knitting. If I want to continue knitting while watching The Killing I have one of two options: a) get good enough to knit so I don't have to look at what I'm doing. b) Learn Danish.
It's probably true of every parent and their children, by my dad thinks I'm the business. It's not in the you're-my-kid-and-therefore-I'm-obliged-to-think-you're-awesome kind of way. Oh no! He genuinely thinks I can do anything, which, let's face it -- just ain't the truth.
Case in point: Danny Glover was in the country recently and I attended a very strange photo-opportunity that involved Glover meeting our president, and then delivering the obligatory African-American-actor speech of "it's so good to be back in Africa, the Mother Land." (Side note: Mother Land?! Please. Also; "Africa" is a big-ass continent, not a country. The least you can do is figure out which country you're in.)
Anyway, I snapped this picture and sent it to my dad who swiftly responded with "did the President speak to you?!" (My dad, a true patriot, was more interested in Mshiniwam than Mr Lethal Weapon. Bless.)
When I responded with "No. Why would he be interested in me? He's talking to Danny Glover!" my poor father was genuinely puzzled. Did I tell the president I have a blog? He genuinely wanted to know. (Because everyone knows Zuma can't resist a woman with a blog?) A long, frustrating conversation ended with my dad telling me I was way more interesting than some silly actor and the President would have found me compelling. Ridiculous to you and me but it made total sense to my father.
I've been visiting with my parents in Jo'burg the last few days and realise now more than ever how blessed I have been with my dad. One of the many things he's always done for me is polish my shoes; it sounds ridiculous and -- while I can totally do it myself -- he likes doing it for me and I ain't complaining. Before taking me to the airport today he gave my leather boots one last shine and then, a little sadly, mentioned how soon I'll be married with someone else to shine my boots. Bittersweet.
Still, no matter how old I get, my dad always knows how to make me feel better. Like when we went out a few days ago and I tried to give a homeless woman money. Turns out, she wasn't homeless, but a perfectly respectable woman with a husband and child who certainly didn't need my clumsy charity. In my defence, she had a bad haircut. I felt like a total idiot and, unfortunately for me, my humiliation was witnessed by my whole family who are not letting me live it down (go on... you can laugh... it's pretty funny in retrospect). To cheer me up my dad bought me this jazzy hair clip. I love it. (Please tell me I'm not the only person whose taste errs on the side of tacky?)
All this to say: my dad is the best, and I quite like him.