The Manda Goes to a Wedding Shower


On Friday afternoon the Work People had a wedding shower for NayNay. We ate things with cheese and toasted her with champagne. She opened boxes of place settings and kitchen utensils. It was lovely, and I couldn't be happier for her and the soon-to-be Mr. NayNay.

But I don't get wedding showers.

This is not standard singleton sour grapes about how people get to marry the love of their lives AND they get a lot of free merchandise to boot and if I don't marry the love of my life I get bupkus. It's not like that.

I was introduced to the man who in ten days will be Mr. NayNay almost four years ago. I remember this very clearly, because I pulled NayNay aside-- I think I may have even grabbed her by the collar-- and said, "If you fuck this up, I'll kill you." I'm always happy when it turns out I'm right about other people's relationships. It happens so rarely in my own.

Who am I kidding? I'm happy when I'm right about pretty much anything.

And it's not about the stuff, because people-- including NayNay-- offered to throw me a housewarming when I bought Little Blue. I refused because I don't really get housewarming parties either.

It's all the planning. It's knowing what kind of china you're going to be eating from for the next few decades. It's getting all gooshy about modern appliances. I can't muster that much excitement about salad tongs. I watch people open these boxes at these things-- and I've been to many of them-- and I can't wrap my head around going all misty-eyed over flatware.

Right now, as I write this, my mom is thinking about window treatments for my house. I'm content to let her do it, mainly because I don't care what's on my windows as long as my neighbors can't see when I'm in the living room playing Rock Band. I think all of this means I'm missing something essential about being female.

Females are supposed to nest, or so we're taught. My current war against my belongings makes me think I'm really engaged in a long process of tearing my nest apart so I can fly again.

Or maybe I'm just abnormally averse to having to write thank-you notes.

Mercifully, we didn't have to do that thing where they make a hat out of the bows from the presents and make the bride wear it. That custom originated with the sour grapes crowd; I'm sure of it.