Honeymoon baby! The new husband has treated me to five luxuriant days in the fairest Cape. Nothing less than five star hotels, lavish meals, on tap masseuses, spa visits, a not small amount of time spent indoors to consummate, and the kind of love that is blind.
For this I have absolute irrefutable proof.
Leaving the hotel one day to take a relaxing walk on the beach, my hand tightly held in his (partial proof) hubby suggested, “We should take pictures of our honeymoon and add them to the wedding album.”
“I think not” was my measured (sensitive) response as robust images of Cinderella’s ugly sisters came to mind with no glass slipper coming forth to a)fit and b) be suitable for a walk along the beach.
Within the space of a week I was able to pull off the persona of both Cinderella and at least one of her demonised sisters.
Cinderella showed up at the wedding, well and good: hair blow waved and gelled; clipped and combed in a way that had it behaving late into the night.
My make-up, professionally applied at a cost of R2000, held despite a rather disproportionate blub, when my husband (still to-be at that stage) saw me as ‘bride’ for the first time.
My dress was perfect, my shoes elegant, nails painted, I was a princess.
But the transformation into ugly sister was inevitable when the Cape Town climate and my back-to-nature hair came together with the wind and sea air that the city is known for.
With only a lick of mascara, my hair as curly and wild as the cattle Billy Crystal had to herd from one side of Colorado to the other in City Slickers, 1991 – and dressing down to shorts and a sleeveless top over sickeningly pale skin, there is no way that pictures are being taken, let alone being pasted alongside gorgeous portraits of the blushing bride.
Thus the only honeymoon pictures I have are mental ones which will remain pure if vague for eternity.
The fact that hubby thought me picture-worthy in my au-naturel state is proof, beyond reasonable doubt that love is blind.
‘ANC’ my mother keeps saying. ‘You must get an ANC.’ I know she didn’t vote for them so she must be hammering on about something else.
Then the context hits me, not that there could be any other as the past few months have focused on engineering a wedding.
Anti-nuptial contract is what my mother wants to impress upon me – how important it is to protect my assets, as it were.
But we are operating at the 11th hour, and ANC seems the one thing on the list that we just won’t get to.
With the catering having resolved itself, the dress looking gorgeous, the rabbi met with and the shul confirmed the last minute list of things to do remain challenging nonetheless.
As we knuckle down to arrange the seating plan, we realise we have not allocated a place for a few key people – such as the rabbi and the photographer.
We still have to decide whether there will or will not be prayer cards for grace after meals and arrange for someone religiously qualified to bless the marital pair (and since we have not engaged the rabbi for this task) this could prove a little difficult.
There are still serviettes to buy, flowers to be collected and photographic venues and time schedules to be arranged and adhered to.
Clothing items for the retinue are still being made and hems must be attended to so that we all look as perfect as possible.
Our international guests (namely my sister and her family) have started to arrive and it’s a matter of days until the main event.
Then in a last ditch attempt to turn a smallish affair into a memorable event, we review a fast diminishing budget and decide some form of entertainment is needed.
Nothing comes cheap and at the end of it all, the assets – what little remains – will not sustain legal fees.