For some, marriage is a leap too far, Lisa Scott finds.
It's easy to be happy for your friends when they succeed in business, or accomplish something in a sport they love. And who wouldn't be delighted if a friend won a prize (as long as it wasn't Lotto) or bought an awesome pair of shoes for less than the retail price.
Harder, though, to be pleased if they lose weight without even trying, or go to New York for a holiday just because their passport doesn't have a big black mark on it. A smidge harder still to get really excited or even fake a smile when they're getting married ... and you're not.
It so happens that my BFF Tammy is engaged to enter the state of holy matrimony after dating some guy for like 30 minutes, when it's no secret that I've spent the last 15 years waiting, hinting and hoping the economist might drop to one knee and pop the question (he would not pop it here, he would not pop it there, he would not pop it anywhere). He did actually collapse into the right pose once while digging a big hole in the garden and my heart momentarily skipped a beat: turned out his kneecap had dislocated.
Having lost my self-respect entirely I proposed to him last leap year day, in the kitchen, while making dinner. It was amazing really. He almost seemed to run in place, like a cat on slippery lino trying to escape a cucumber.
Current number of husbands: zero (while it's true I've been proposed to more than a few times, it was usually at The Asian and the prospective groom was always extremely drunk and never the economist).
Of course I am seething with jealousy at Tammy's news, albeit not for reasons you might think.
Yes, marriage is back in fashion in a big way after 30 years of terminal decline and you know I like to be on trend. And yes, I do prefer things to be all about me in a world-revolving-around way. But that's not it.
This is the woman who takes me to the Farmers Market on a Saturday morning for a bacon buttie if I have a hangover and the only person in the world to get away with calling me ‘‘Scooter''.
If I said, ‘‘I need you to text me every 30 seconds to tell me everything is going to be OK'', she'd do it. When I was thinking of getting a new tattoo last week, she said, ‘‘No, you're not''. If I wore something that made me look stupid, she'd mock it to my face and not behind my back like a crap friend might. If I was having one of those days when I felt scruffy, lardy-bummed and generally a complete imposter, she could make me feel like a goddess in five minutes flat, just by coming over and telling me I was fabulous.
Now a certain surfing lawyer (he's easy to spot: skipping around town, tousling the hair of criminals and wearing a goofy smile) has romanced her with Red Band gumboots and chivalrous protection from territorial sea lions and I've got a case of anticipatory phantom limb. Which is nothing to how the economist is feeling, Tammy's upcoming nuptials putting him in a bit of a pickle with my mother.
‘‘I want a wedding this year,'' she demanded imperiously. ‘‘While I'm still upright. I fancy myself in a lilac chiffon number, lithe and floaty with a big hat on, sitting up the front.''
The economist made that face that suggests politeness under pressure in adults and wind in babies. After a decade and a-half of free milk, he sees no reason for haste in cow purchasing. ‘‘You'll bloody sit where we put you,'' he told her, ‘‘and you'll be wearing whatever the nurses dressed you in that day.''
‘‘He is a card,'' said Mum, completely misunderstanding the situation.
‘‘We're not even engaged,'' I told her, attempting to clarify the need for a long wait and a great deal of hope.
"Darling, I think it's a given that there's no-one else for me,'' said the economist, ‘‘ever since your sister got married.''
Speaking of married, there are opportunities aplenty for honest-woman-making this February 2016 - Valentine's Day and the next leap day a fortnight later.
‘‘It's going to be a tough month,'' said the economist.
