Perhaps unjustified, but necessary

I’d ignored all the bitchy childish thoughts running through my head.  Dismissed them as irrational tantrum throwing, as pointless gripes and grudges.  And I thought they’d left.  But they hadn’t.  While I’m sitting here wondering why my injured knees are getting worse rather than better, with two days to go before my sister’s hen’s night, all those little demon-child thoughts have somehow become lodged in my sprained knees.  All that anger and resentment, sitting there waiting for someone to take them seriously.  Waiting for someone to hoist the banner for them and go into battle against the unjust world on their behalf.  So they may as well sing their song; here they are. 

I am mightily pissed off with my young sister.  I am pissed off with anyone who gets married and expects me to play the part they’ve scripted for me in their happy happy day.  And my sister has planned a somewhat lavish affair and complained loudly and often about how stingy my parents have been in coming along to all the side-parties.  Dance lessons, professional hair and makeup, trial reception dinner with parents of groom.  So I know what’s expected, if I want my sister to approve of my efforts.  And until now I’ve been playing along, my bank account stretched to screaming. 

But you know what?  I’m sick of the expectations.  Buy an expensive dress?  On my pension?  When everything looks rubbish and no-one will be pleased anyway?  How many labour hours have I put into this?  As if it’s going to be appreciated anyway!  And I’m the one who’ll be left with a giant hole in my bank account. 

And so many events to show up to!  Kitchen tea?  What was that?  My sister doesn’t need kitchen utensils, she has those.  And recipe books.  So why did all the aunties have to turn up in pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes and eat cupcakes and rubbish?  I’m sorry, what was that about?  And why did you need me there? 

Now it’s a hens night.  Dinner and dancing and overpriced alcoholic fruit smoothies for the bride’s last Saturday night as a single woman.  Except that she hasn’t been a single woman for ten years!  She’s been in an exclusive relationship for the last decade!  Of her two bridesmaids, one is married already, and the other is marrying next month.  So what is this going to be? 

Supposedly this is supposed to be at least obliquely representative of what single women do on a Saturday night.  Spend well over a hundred dollars on hopping between crowded nightclubs an hour and a half’s bus ride from home, shivering in tarty synthetic clothing and tottering on pinching stilettoes.  I know, I’ve seen the pictures proudly displayed on the websites by the clubs’ owners.  At the moment, apparently, it is fashionable to paint the face a mask-like uniform shade, with blackened eye-rims, and wear long, bleached hair ironed flat.  I imagine it’s so common that none of those girls realise how strange and tarty it looks.  The boys are tarty too, but they do it with bleached hair and unbuttoned shirts. 

Of course, if you’re not dressed in this uniform, you’ll be universally thought unattractive and dull, and will probably be denied admittance.  What are we supposed to do when we get there?  I don’t know.  Dance I guess.  Embarrass the bride-to-be.  As though any of us spend our evenings this way!  I don’t know, maybe some of them do.  How am I supposed to afford it?  No wonder both my knees are sprained and I can barely stand.  I don’t know what I’m going to do.  I’m an invalid! 

On top of all the upfront expenses ($44 for a buffet dinner!)  there’s a contribution to a gift for my sister.  A spa treatment.  I suppose it saves us all buying her fluffy handcuffs and sex manuals.  I’m just pissed off that all of this is expected.  No question of whether we’d enjoy it, or can afford it.  Oh, I know I technically could have refused the invitation, but socially I couldn’t.  It’s like I’ve handed over my credit card and my appointment book and just said, "do what you like".  

Part of me wonders why I’m even included in this in the first place.  Has my sister ever spent an evening out with me?  This invitation is not personal.  This role is not marked ‘white cloud’, it’s marked ‘sister of the bride’.  I feel like she’s in charge of everything and I want to say ‘no’.  I want to say, "how can you expect so much of me?  I see you a few times a year, I know you don’t think much of me.  I’m a dirt-poor disability pensioner who’s never had the money to buy impractical clothes and spend evenings in night clubs.  I don’t have the health to drink and dance and form whatever sort of liaisons with greasy cashed-up simpletons those venues engender.  Why do you even want me to do this for you?  Or did you just invite me because you’d cause offence if you didn’t?" 

She doesn’t seem to care how much it costs all of us to put on this party for her.  Oh sure, she’s the star and the wedding will include a free meal for all of us.  But it’s her little stage play and we’ve been brought along to clap.  And been asked to bring our own costumes and write our own speeches.  That’s how weddings are, how can I blame her?  I hate weddings. 

Honestly, I don’t really understand weddings.  Why do it?  You don’t need to marry to gain social legitimacy for your relationship.  Is it a committment you want from the groom, so you’ll feel safe enough to have children?  Or a tax dodge?  Relationships aren’t guaranteed permanent even if you do marry.  I’m proof of that.  Maybe it’s socially necessary before having children.  Some middle-class rite of passage into couples-only land? 

I’ve noticed that at this age "couples" don’t hang out with "single people" any more.  I’m so far removed from this loud, tinny, strange world.  It passes by, and I remain unschooled, childlike, forsaken.  A half-formed project discarded for being strangely disturbing.  A doll not fit for the shop window.