It’s not that I’m worried about getting married or if I’m ready. All that’s sorted in my head. I’m in love and every time I look at Him, every time we laugh together or do things together, I’m amazed at how comfortably happy I am. What does occur to me is that I’ll never be alone again and that’s weird cuz until I met Him I’d pretty much come to terms with being alone and I was cool. I’d started to enjoy Aloneness. The routine of curling up in my living room with a glass of wine and a movie after a long week at work was something I looked forward to. I could spend an entire weekend by myself and not be the least bit bothered.

Until the neighbours start to wonder what that awful smell is and I’m found two weeks dead. Head smashed in from slipping while getting out of the bath.

Yeah. I’m getting married in 25 days. Whew!

I read this story in the New York Times today. Kinda puts things in perspective.

Every year around my birthday I take a day to be alone to review the past year and set a few goals for the one ahead. I go through a spiritual, physical and emotional cleanse; to shed the things that kept me from doing and being better. In a way it’s emptying the large bag of shit I’ve accumulated in the 365 days since my last Birth Day and it’s usually best if I do it alone.

This year I did not have my day alone. My fiancé went to great lengths to plan a lovely weekend of culture, shopping and travel and I could bear to tell him that all I wanted was twelve hours of solitude. Instead I spent the better part of my Birth Day in a foul mood; cranky, snappy and generally unbearable. Bless my honey as he never took it personally and immediately recognised my mood for what it was; the Turning 40 Blues. He wisely left me this month’s issue of Vanity Fair during the hour plus drive to the coast.

I was slightly more agreeable upon arrival but very angry at myself for once again not saying no. Truth is, he wouldn’t have minded just doing Friday and Saturday afternoon activities. It was my day and I could have and should have done what I wanted. The rest of the weekend was really nice and it reconfirmed to me how incredibly lucky I am to have a man that loves me as much, and knows me as well, as he does.

So this weekend, he’s spending Saturday running wedding errands and Sunday out on his bike. I get to do whatever I want. Alone.

My father is the chief offender and what is most irritating is how he tries to shield his flakiness in the aura of a just believable enough Zen like approach to life. As I’m wringing my hands and chewing on Tums by the handful, his response to my well founded angst is always, “Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine…” Easy for him to say. He’s not the one facing the awful prospect of walking down the aisle fatherless with everyone staring, trying desperately to hide their pity.

This is the kind of thing that drove my mother bonkers. I now realise how much she shielded me from my father’s imperfections. She was the one who made sure school fees were paid, new shoes were bought and wills were written. She came up with complex but perfectly legal ways to leave her children money, real estate and valuable personal effects without one extra penny passing from us to the government. She’d worked hard and paid enough taxes, thank you.

My father on the other hand still does not have a savings account. Mind you, he’s frugal, but the concept of money markets and interest earned are simply not on his list of priorities. He’s too busy helping everyone else. Admirable but really quite dumb.

The older of my two brothers still lives at home. He’s 49 this year. He did leave home a few times but somehow all his roads led him straight back to where he started. My feelings about this sway between worry and amusement but as we both grow older I find myself with a furrowed brow more often than a smile when I think of him. He’s had a standing job offer in the Middle East where it’s safe and the pay is amazing. He’s done nothing about it. I don’t know why. Fear? Laziness? Suspended animation? Or all of the above? I can feel another gray hair pushing it’s way into view. Let’s move on.

The other brother was a “playah” back in the day but now I think he’s just being played. His wife is one of these born again nuts whose propensity for quoting the bible makes grind my teeth, which is the better option, trust me. He never seems to be able to put his foot down and for all the man that he is, she manages reduces him to a ten year old asking for permission to go out and play.

For 45 years my mother was lived her life trying to herd these tomcats, grasping at her only daughter’s company for some small taste of sanity and an organised existence. I understand now Mummy, what you had to manage. It cannot have been easy for you but you did it and I am and always will be in awe.

Meanwhile, things have worked out and I won’t be walking down the aisle alone after all.

The flat is a mess. I haven’t the energy for that either. I had one phone call this morning and 15mins of conversation left me breathless, coughing and reaching for my inhaler. Seriously, this is getting tired. I hate being sick! I should’ve been on a 12-day intense stretch at the gym getting my ass into tip-top-wedding-dress-looking-super-fine shape.

–Oscar Wilde