Just Call Me Bridget

I wrote this a week ago. But forgot to post it. And as a disclaimer (because I like disclaimers), I'm not even slightly burdened by this anymore. It was just a moment. That is all. I wish him well.


He's getting married. And there are whispers of envy, confusion, sadness and self-pity echoing in my head. Questions I don't usually spend much time with start looping over and over: What's wrong with me? How is this possible? Why do I care so much? Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret. (Okay, so I don't usually call myself Margaret....) Cue the whining.

I'm shocked by my own reaction. And uncomfortable. And embarrassed. (Although not embarrassed enough to not blog about it.)

No, I don't want to marry him. At all. Never have. I can't recall a single moment of crushing, pining or even curiosity toward said fellow. Quite the opposite. In fact, I would have assumed that my chances of getting married were far greater than his. Isn't that horrible? To be so sure that you're a greater catch than someone else? To mercilessly judge others and condemn them to singleness because you would never date them? So now I feel like crap on two very different levels.

He headed out on some great adventure and found his beautiful match. I stayed home and found a rotting grape under my fridge. (That's not a metaphor. There was an actual grape under my actual fridge.)

So while he's picking confetti out of his hair this weekend, I'll be blogging about nothing much and wondering why one geek gets a wedding while another gets a bowl of macaroons and a slow Internet connection.

At least lip-syncing, like time, heals all wounds. I'm only partially joking.