In about nine hours, I will walk into a house slightly bubbling over with cooing aunts and white tulle. The women will laugh--no, titter--and play games our grandmothers played and squeal and clap gloved hands. Foods will be in miniature, as will the serving pieces. Every other woman there will have been long-married, and they will give the bride half-baked advice laced with unsubtle comments about the general uselessness of men.
Of course it won't be that bad. I know it won't be that bad. I'm sure no one will be wearing gloves. The tittering will be kept to a dull roar. I'll probably even like the games. But this is what my brain does when a girly thing is in my immediate life path. I know it's silly, absurd even, but it happens nonetheless--for every cell of brain that says, "Relax, it's going to be fine," there are two saying, "but you'd rather stay home and watch Braveheart." . . .
[So this was, originally, a real essay--a more-than-two-paragraphs essay. But Blogger has elected to dissolve it mysteriously (dang logocidal Cloud), sooooo I guess we'll just leave it as it. Maybe I'll flesh it out again when I'm less ticked...]
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