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So, I have survived this weekend. In fact, I even enjoyed it somewhat. This amazes me and possibly everyone who knows me.
So, basically, I am rubbish at Meet The Family. Previous relationships have involved Meet The Family But We're Not Telling The Family We're A Couple As Mum Thinks We're Straight, and other ones involved being judged almost entirely on my ability to care and my academic performance. They are times of horrible pressure and insecurity and basically I decided that I was entirely done with the entire thing and I would just live in a loop of casual sex without ever meeting the parents.
Okay, I have clearly managed to ignore the first portion of that - quietly, quietly, whisper it so you don't break the fragile awareness but yes this is a real relationship that sort of just stays quiet but happy - but I was nicely agreed on the idea that I wasn't going to Meet The Family. No siree. Not for me. I am making decisions on this and that is the end of it. I am a horrible person and shouldn't be allowed to meet people, anyway.
So how and why, exactly, I managed to agree to go to the wedding of Richie's brother I will never remember. There was drink involved, like most such decisions.
I had a week of nerves. At one point I debated the merits of eating raw chicken to give myself food poisoning. (I decided this was a little OTT even for me.) I worked a long day on Friday, and wailed about how they were going to eat me, I was physically incapable of giving a good impression on first meeting. We went to the pub. I wailed a bit more and ate chips. Yet somehow I found myself on a train up to Dyce - north of Aberdeen, for those wondering about geography - with a grim determination to Do Well. I had a bag packed for every eventuality, a nice dress, two pairs of shoes, the whole shebang. Once I arrived, it was all fine; there was a room at the hotel, I didn't have to meet anyone (which was good; it was 10pm at this point and I'd left the house at 8.30am in order to be at work on time) and I drank wine, as my statement that I was off the booze had gone out of the window. It was lovely, the hotel the wedding was going to be in was lovely, I relaxed a little. Even breakfast the next day was okay. I stole teeny jams and relaxed, safe in the knowledge that the wedding wasn't until 3pm.
Of course this wasn't all that easy, and by 1pm I was made-up and had a posh dress on, and resisted the urge to giggle at kilts, and then I met some family members, who were lovely, and we went to the church. The ceremony was lovely, and the church was beautiful, and I found myself relaxing very, very slowly. Next was photos, some of which I was dragged on to - this is the only element in which I was uncomfortable - but I got out of that soon enough. Then it was back to the hotel for the reception proper. This was where I was introduced to lots of people. I smiled, shook hands, made general comments, was quietly amazed that I was being taken at face value.
The meal was great - I could have eaten about eighteen more profiteroles but luckily a switch in my head went and shouted 'GRAD BALL DRESS STOP NOW' - and we got little wedding favours of tiny bottles of perfume. I chatted easily enough with the other guests around the table, a fairly random assortment, and quietly got stuck into the white wine. As people know, I'm not mad keen on white wine, but I had on a black and white dress and it would force me to drink slowly. Inventive, you see? Besides, I hadn't touched my purse all day and I was curious as to how far I could push this.
The meal ended. The speeches happened, mostly over my head, but I smiled and clapped when I needed to. (By this point I was understanding the accent, which I hadn't at first.) The party at the end of the night started up, as did the white wine in earnest. I was made thoroughly welcome, danced with family members and younger sisters, shook hands, kissed cheeks. I found myself, to my absolute amazement, having a lovely time. Even through the pipe band and the enthusiastic rendition of Loch Lomond, which was certainly a surprise.
I went to bed fairly drunk, but in the good way, and happy. The feeling even lasted through a family breakfast, and more teeny jam theft. Okay, the hangover was absolutely epic, but these things happen. People kept on asking me 'Did you enjoy your first ever Scottish wedding?' and I was able to say, with a real and genuine smile, 'I really, really did.'
Apparently I went down well. It's nice to know that the feeling was mutual.
So, now I am in St Andrews. I have absolutely nothing to do today. I'm not going to bother cleaning, or applying for jobs today. I think I'm just going to watch telly, and maybe a Star Trek film, and enjoy a day off. I haven't had a day like that for months and months and months, so it's about time. Now, Doctors and soup. Yummy.
So, basically, I am rubbish at Meet The Family. Previous relationships have involved Meet The Family But We're Not Telling The Family We're A Couple As Mum Thinks We're Straight, and other ones involved being judged almost entirely on my ability to care and my academic performance. They are times of horrible pressure and insecurity and basically I decided that I was entirely done with the entire thing and I would just live in a loop of casual sex without ever meeting the parents.
Okay, I have clearly managed to ignore the first portion of that - quietly, quietly, whisper it so you don't break the fragile awareness but yes this is a real relationship that sort of just stays quiet but happy - but I was nicely agreed on the idea that I wasn't going to Meet The Family. No siree. Not for me. I am making decisions on this and that is the end of it. I am a horrible person and shouldn't be allowed to meet people, anyway.
So how and why, exactly, I managed to agree to go to the wedding of Richie's brother I will never remember. There was drink involved, like most such decisions.
I had a week of nerves. At one point I debated the merits of eating raw chicken to give myself food poisoning. (I decided this was a little OTT even for me.) I worked a long day on Friday, and wailed about how they were going to eat me, I was physically incapable of giving a good impression on first meeting. We went to the pub. I wailed a bit more and ate chips. Yet somehow I found myself on a train up to Dyce - north of Aberdeen, for those wondering about geography - with a grim determination to Do Well. I had a bag packed for every eventuality, a nice dress, two pairs of shoes, the whole shebang. Once I arrived, it was all fine; there was a room at the hotel, I didn't have to meet anyone (which was good; it was 10pm at this point and I'd left the house at 8.30am in order to be at work on time) and I drank wine, as my statement that I was off the booze had gone out of the window. It was lovely, the hotel the wedding was going to be in was lovely, I relaxed a little. Even breakfast the next day was okay. I stole teeny jams and relaxed, safe in the knowledge that the wedding wasn't until 3pm.
Of course this wasn't all that easy, and by 1pm I was made-up and had a posh dress on, and resisted the urge to giggle at kilts, and then I met some family members, who were lovely, and we went to the church. The ceremony was lovely, and the church was beautiful, and I found myself relaxing very, very slowly. Next was photos, some of which I was dragged on to - this is the only element in which I was uncomfortable - but I got out of that soon enough. Then it was back to the hotel for the reception proper. This was where I was introduced to lots of people. I smiled, shook hands, made general comments, was quietly amazed that I was being taken at face value.
The meal was great - I could have eaten about eighteen more profiteroles but luckily a switch in my head went and shouted 'GRAD BALL DRESS STOP NOW' - and we got little wedding favours of tiny bottles of perfume. I chatted easily enough with the other guests around the table, a fairly random assortment, and quietly got stuck into the white wine. As people know, I'm not mad keen on white wine, but I had on a black and white dress and it would force me to drink slowly. Inventive, you see? Besides, I hadn't touched my purse all day and I was curious as to how far I could push this.
The meal ended. The speeches happened, mostly over my head, but I smiled and clapped when I needed to. (By this point I was understanding the accent, which I hadn't at first.) The party at the end of the night started up, as did the white wine in earnest. I was made thoroughly welcome, danced with family members and younger sisters, shook hands, kissed cheeks. I found myself, to my absolute amazement, having a lovely time. Even through the pipe band and the enthusiastic rendition of Loch Lomond, which was certainly a surprise.
I went to bed fairly drunk, but in the good way, and happy. The feeling even lasted through a family breakfast, and more teeny jam theft. Okay, the hangover was absolutely epic, but these things happen. People kept on asking me 'Did you enjoy your first ever Scottish wedding?' and I was able to say, with a real and genuine smile, 'I really, really did.'
Apparently I went down well. It's nice to know that the feeling was mutual.
So, now I am in St Andrews. I have absolutely nothing to do today. I'm not going to bother cleaning, or applying for jobs today. I think I'm just going to watch telly, and maybe a Star Trek film, and enjoy a day off. I haven't had a day like that for months and months and months, so it's about time. Now, Doctors and soup. Yummy.