I went to a wedding, and had to be put to bed with a bad case of wedding fever.

I was a bridesmaid and my friend was a beautiful blushing bride. We wore pink. She was the one in white. He was the one sweating buckets at the altar. The ceremony was Catholic and blessedly short.

It was a pretty day for weddings. I was in my element with manicured lawns, flowery arches and an excessively girly dress. I wish I’d been allowed to ditch the heels, though. Our bouquets were really nice. Yay! I left mine at the reception by accident. Boo! There were sunset pictures and cocktails by the poolside and I ate enough food for two Robyns.

This was my second wedding in two years. They married young but not unexpectedly. They’ve been together almost as long as me and the Love. Some relationships don’t even last that long, let alone end up in marriage. I have mixed feelings about marrying young. I think it’s all well and good for other people, but I constantly have to remind myself that it is not the best option for me. I am in no position to be running around and getting married all willy-nilly. I romanticise young marriages a lot, with images of uphill struggles that you always manage to get through because true love conquers all ad nauseam.

Besides, I’m not nearly grown-up enough to be someone’s Mrs.

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