May 21, 2016


     I'm going to keep this week's post romantic and sweet because it's a wedding weekend for me. No, I'm not getting married, my opinion on marriage is still the same, it's basically still a nightmare, but not everyone shares my views so today I went to my boyfriend's brother's wedding, yay. Or should I say semi-yay ...
     Sure, getting together to eat, drink and be merry while others get married is great but of course there's a hiccup — you have to show up looking somewhat presentable. Which for someone who's covered in tattoos and riddled with piercings is kind of a pain in the posterior. Always. I still remember when my dear friend got married years ago, how my posterior ached trying to find an outfit that would satisfy her requirements: "Please, this is not for me, I know you and love you and accept you just the way you are," she was doing her very best to be tactful, bless her infinitely kind heart, "but please, please, keep in mind that there will be other people there, old people, Christian people, conservative people, my parent's, his parent's, grandparents — cover up. Your boobs, your ass, your tattoos, as much as possible."
     That right there was the beginning of my butt pain issues — and that was years ago. Now, trying to meet those requirements ... I'll just say that it's getting increasingly harder. But I somehow managed to successfully fulfill the mission and please the bride back then so I was confident that I could do it this time around as well when I embarked on an outfit scavenger hunt this past Wednesday. But as I was standing in front of my overflowing closet and running out of options, my confidence dwindled.
     "No, that's too goth. No, that's too edgy. No, that's too black. No, that's too white. No, that's too revealing," discarded my boyfriend all of my sartorial suggestions one by one.
     "Great," I said. "I guess we're going shopping tomorrow," I added begrudgingly. Why begrudgingly? Because I have too much shit in my closet as it is and I started to felt like a brainwashed sheep every time I bought something new so I decided I wouldn't buy anything for a year. Or even ever. Seriously, I have enough clothes to last me a lifetime. But apparently not wedding-ready clothes so an emergency shopping expedition was scheduled for the following day.
     Next morning, way before our expected departure time and even before our alarm clock, my boyfriend's phone beeped — he got a text.
     "Who's texting you at this hour?" I asked groggily.
     "Oh, it's just my cousin."
     "What does she want this early, is everything OK?"
     "Yeah, sure, she just sent me a picture of her look for the wedding."
     "Oh, cool, let me see," I said wanting to see how something non-goth, non-edgy and wedding-appropriate was supposed to look.
     "Here," he said, showing me the phone from a mile away.
     "Give me the phone, I can't see anything."
     "Sure you can," he said, not letting go of the phone.
     "No, I can't, just give me the phone."
     "You're seriously not letting me see your phone right now?"
     "I am, just ... not right now."
     "OK, fine," I said, got up and left the room.
     After a minute, he came after me, shoving his phone in my hand: "Here, look, look at whatever you want."
     "Now? You're joking, right? No, thanks, I don't need to see anything anymore, but thank you anyway," I said walking past him to get ready to go for a run — I was fuming and needed to get out of the house. The thing is, I can read my boyfriend like a polygraph and I knew he was hiding something, I knew he had something on that phone he didn't want me to see and I knew he deleted it after I left the room and before he came after me. I knew it. But before you peg me as some psycho girlfriend, let me just tell you that it did in fact turn out I was right — you cannot beat this polygraph.
     There's another thing you cannot do with this polygraph and that's stop it when it decides to do something, so despite him begging me to stay and talk it out, I went for a run, because I couldn't listen to his evasions and lies. So I put my MP3 player's earbuds in my ears and decided to listen to some music instead. Which, granted, wasn't the best idea because when I turned the damn thing on, I heard Beyonce singing, "Love is so blind, it feels right when it's wrong. I can't believe I fell for your schemes, I'm smarter than that. I got me, myself and I, that's all I got in the end," due to which my mind spiraled out of control, plummeting down the blackest of holes. Therefore, as you can imagine, all hell broke loose, when I returned home. But it wasn't the hell you're probably imagining.
     In this particular version of inferno, I played the role of an ice queen while my boyfriend was the one who succumbed to histrionics, screaming and yelling and flapping his hands to somehow penetrate the (seemingly) permafrost fortress and convince me I was only imagining things. All in vain, of course. When he, eventually, saw that his approach wasn't getting him anywhere, he calmed down and asked me to sit next to him so he could explain everything and so sit I did.
     "OK, listen," he said. "That really was a text from my cousin. But I didn't want to give you the phone because then you'd see her other texts too so I had to delete them before giving the phone to you."
     "Why wouldn't you want me to see a text from your cousin?"
     "Because ... OK, I didn't want to tell you that, but now I kind of have to, so ... Your birthday is coming up and I know you want an external flash for your camera so I asked her if she could go to the store instead of me so you wouldn't suspect anything and it would be a surprise. Those were the texts I deleted."
     When he said that, a scene from Sex and the City flashed through my mind, you know the one in which Carrie … Who am I kidding? Most of my readers are male, so you don't necessarily know but you will for sure know now (you're welcome): in the sixth episode of series' third season, Carrie meets Aidan who doesn't want to have sex with her for the first couple of weeks and she attacks him for it, demanding to know what the matter is — is he gay, does he have some disease, what? And you know what he says to her? He wants to wait because sex can ruin things so he prefers taking things slow when he finds someone special and he thinks she's special. Imagine that. He was simply being nice — nice, people! Carrie was so dumbfounded, she put a post-it on her laptop with the word 'romance' written on it to remind herself of the rare but obviously not yet extinct delicacy. And I guess I need a post-it of some sort too because I didn't even considered the nice, romantic factor, not in the slightest, and was thus just as shocked when my boyfriend explained himself.
     But shocked or not, after hours of brooding in silence and just quietly watching my boyfriend running into my ice cold walls, I had to say something and I said the most rational, most normal, most non-psycho thing I could think of: "So you didn't wait for me to leave the room so you could delete all of your sex texts and change the name of your side bitch in your contacts to 'cousin' so I'd think it was her when it actually wasn't?"
     "That's what you thought?"
     "Yes, you did."
     "No, I didn't."
     "You're crazy."
     "No, I'm not." OK, maybe just a little. But in this day and age with life and TV telling me to be on the prowl 24/7, can you really blame me for not factoring in romance thinking that it's something long gone and forgotten? It's a good thing, though, that I stand corrected, since there are still lovestruck chumps getting married left and right, blinded by romance and all its accompanying mushy nonsense — which brings me to my boyfriend's brother's wedding and my outfit: I found one and it was a pretty great one, I was all respectful and covered and shit. Although in the end, I came to realize what I always come to realize at these matrimonial affairs: what people wear is the least important thing, because at a wedding it's all about — you guessed it — romance.
     But still. People, please, if you know me and plan on inviting me to your wedding, do it quickly because I will be needing a scuba suit eventually to cover everything that you think might ruin your picture perfect day of romance.

     Thanks for stopping by and looking and reading (obviously) my mishmash jumble of pot-pourri-like craziness, it means the world to me. Therefore, you're welcome to pop by again next week to see what's new on the blog — I post once a week every week, most likely somewhere between Wednesdays and Sundays. But beware, I'm not signing and sealing that in blood so your best bet is to follow FPS via email (or Bloglovin, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook or Google+) to never miss an update. Or simply come by again sometimes!