Putting The Age Into Marriage.

In the days surrounding the pretence of my wedding day, things seem to just be getting even more complicated. I’ve not lost so much hair, ever, and I’m barely thirty. In fact, I often think about that. Is thirty-four too young to be getting married? I do love Marie, that’s for certain, I do. But, do I want to end up being in one of those marriages that are rushed and that never had a chance? The kind where a family is settled for in mere months after marriage, and even that marriage was only previous to a nine-month relationship. I’ve always told myself that I would never let myself get into such a relationship. So, is thirty-four too young for marriage? I wouldn’t know and I don’t know who actually knows these sorts of rules. I would say the person, who invented the term, but he’s probably dead, and I have no reasonable ways of contacting him. I suppose any time after the age of thirty is fine, and morally acceptable. Still, I just don’t want to learn to regret it one day when I am filing for divorce and wondering If I will ever get to see young Grant and Paula, my imaginary children, on a regular basis as the mothers always seem to get the custody for children In a separation. I suppose this kind of nervousness is just natural, and I think that Marie and I are strong enough to withstand the troubled times of marriage.
Marriage is weird anyway. Committing yourself to someone for the rest of your life is just bizarre to me. It’s such a huge decision, that I’ll probably be toying with for years to come. Hopefully, I’ll get used to it and settle. Or maybe this is my conscience telling me to get out while I can. I don’t know, but I think I’m too far in this to say no. I wouldn’t want to hurt Marie, for a start and wasting the effort people are putting in for this wedding would just be spit in the face.
Mother came round today; smelling of that god-awful perfume Bright got her for Christmas. I do think she only wears it now, just for the plain fact that it impressed some bedraggled gentleman in the street the other week. He was so off his face on whiskey, or some other alco-beverage, that I’m surprised he could even mummer anything more than ‘You smell well nice, babe’. After we had walked off, I heard some kind of clattering from behind us. I never looked, but I could only imagine it was him falling into the assortment of waste bins outside the off licence. Mother seemed pleased to see me when I welcomed her in after a prolonged session of rapping on the door, because I was taking a while, trying to find a pair of trousers because lounging in my underwear, on my bed, seemed more appealing then in full clothing. Normally, when the door opens, her face drops when she remembers that I bare no recollection to my brother. Bright has always been the favourite, and I’ve always been the one who decided to take a year out of college at the age of seventeen, tried and failed to get a job for a whole thirteen months and was highly disapproved of. But, for some reason, she beamed at me as if she actually loved me. She was even baring gifts, as if her glow of appreciation wasn’t good enough. She got me a bounty bar. Well, you can’t expect it to always be in good tidings. We had a long discussion about the wedding over coffee and short bread biscuits. Again, a sign of change; she didn’t turn her nose up at the quality of the coffee or my taste in biscuit. She even seemed eager to take one, as well, very strange. maybe she’s pretending to be proud of me because it’s my wedding on the tenth. She mainly talked about how lovely Marie was going to look and that she had seen her dress and it looked ‘like a vision of beauty, and so was she’, which was nice of her to say. I do care about my mother; and I do care about her opinions. Not just of me, but also of everything that surrounds my life. My home, my friends and my fiancé; especially Marie. She can tut, scowl and rant about anything, but heaven forbid her discredit my darling bud. But, the fact that she actually likes Marie, and thinks her ‘delightful’ and ‘a noble, strong woman’ does make me a happy man, and a little less reluctant to admit that she’s my mother. When she left, she actually gave me a hug to be going on with and actually said that she was proud of me. I was so shocked by this that I almost forgot how hugs actually happened, and stood with my arms like a boxed action figure for several seconds.
The rest of the evening I just sat about the house watching the awful ‘Lost’. I know it’s atrocious, but there really wasn’t anything else of interest to be found on the television tonight and I thought I would just watch it and murmur to myself for the duration of how awful it actually was. Plus, I wanted to find out if it ever went anywhere today. It was a lazy day.