An ode to love

I wore excruciatingly tight plastic snake skin pants to the wedding. I was invited via sms a few days before due to someone falling ill and being unable to make it. It was a themed wedding, and the theme, was ‘rock and roll’. Lacking any clear direction on which era I should dress for I went for the loudest and most impractical choice. Now, I have no intention of fathering children at any point in the near future, but my keen sense of fashion and my willingness to endure discomfort for the sake of said fashion may have ensured that the actual fathering of the children is no longer a viable choice. To top it all off I discovered that the ‘official’ invite was quite specific on the theme – fifties rock and roll. I was ahead of my time, by about thirty years. I was the pink plastic elephant in a room full of well-dressed mice.

The groom, years ago when single, purchased a plane ticket and set his plans in motion to move overseas to London. Time for a change and time for a new adventure. Most inconvenient and not long before he was meant to leave he met his bride to be, and, most unexpectedly and amazingly he fell in love. They both did. I know this part of the story well, because almost the exact same thing happened to me. But from then our stories diverged. They fought for their love and their gamble paid off. Whereas I didn’t realise what I had found nor did I think I deserved it. I didn’t plan a future in which I was happily in love. I actively planned and promoted a future in which my ‘love’ found another partner because I was overseas and unavailable. My plan worked.

I never understood how people could fall in and out of love so easily. Egotistically I liked to believe that I was more emotionally mature and stable than my love-sick and love-addicted friends. My superior brain chemistry prevented these wild and passionate swings of emotional co-dependency. At the ripe old age of thirty-one I’ve only been ‘in love’ twice. The first time was a love grown painstakingly over time out of familiarity and friendship. It wasn’t passionate and it wasn’t sustainable; at the end of the day love shouldn’t be based predominantly on familiarity. The second time I fell in love it hit my like a speeding train. Finally I understood what all my friends had been experiencing. It was amazing, amazing and scary. I was twenty-eight. I moved overseas not really understanding what I was leaving behind. I didn’t fight for it because I didn’t think I deserved it and I didn’t think I was worthy of someone who within such a short period of time had made such a profound impact on me and my happiness. I invented, promoted and desperately clung to reasons as to why it couldn’t work.

By the end of the wedding speeches I was incredibly sad and at the same time incredibly moved, and, also, a little bit drunk. They had spirits over the bar at the wedding! Amazing! Seriously! A wedding with spirits on the bar! In sheer excitement I wet myself just a little bit, which, considering I was wearing plastic pants was a very bad idea.

Age changes perspective. As I age my focus on a career, or owning a house, or being a normal respectable part of whatever society deems is currently normal and respectable continues to pale in comparison to finding someone to share my life with. Wearing fake snake skin pants while getting drunk and slowly loosing feeling in my testicles at my friends wedding has made it clearer than ever that love is worth fighting for, and that love, more than anything else, is what will sustain you through this life.


Drunk and Disorderly

Supposedly my drunken impersonation of a sober cat was spectacular.  Supposedly my drunken question asking all my friends why they had gotten so fat was also spectacular, but for entirely different reasons.  Supposedly it’s considered impolite to ask someone you’ve just met at a dinner party what its like being reduced to only one testicle after testicular cancer and completely inappropriate to then inquire as to whether his lone solider has made up for the dip in volume production.  And supposedly my continued ability to ‘examine’ women’s breasts without them slapping me in the face is an extremely coveted and completely non-transferable skill.  At times my behaviour even has me shaking my head in disbelief.

Of my 40 hrs in Canberra I spent over half of them intoxicated and the other half recovering and overeating.  Also, my recollection is that she spilt the champagne over me and therefore no apology was needed.  Actually, if I’m being entirely honest, my recollection only extends to remembering that at one time on Friday evening my left side was dry and then an uncertain time later my left side was wet.

Saturday morning started very well and surprisingly hangover free.  At the time I was convinced that the greasy chips and gravy shared on the way home from clubbing had helped out with that.  Unfortunately within an hour of waking and after studiously cleaning the chicken poo covered pavers outside in preparation for an impending BBQ my absent hangover came crashing in.  I was given alcohol and painkillers to deal with the situation.  The prescribed cure worked wonders.  The friend who I stayed with has turned an entire room in his house into a brewery in an attempt to help curb his alcoholism.  I should elaborate, to curb the expense related to his alcoholism.  Fifty cents a beer is a bargain.  I must admit that his amazing ginger beer made me weak at the knees and I can’t wait for my next trip down when I get to try his apple cider.

Friends from the Friday night drink fest failed to turn up to the Saturday lunch BBQ binge.  I rang to find out where they were and was exhaustedly informed by one friend that he was busy cleaning up the contents of his stomach from his lounge room carpet.  My few remaining sober brain cells made the logical conclusion that this meant he wouldn’t be making lunch.  It was an excessive weekend.

Feeling a little sad on the trip back to Sydney I realised how much I’ve missed some of my good mates and our warm and fuzzy and comfortingly familiar relationships.  I have no intention of moving back to Canberra, but I’m already planning my next trip down.  I’ll just need a few weeks to recover.