Welcome to author Amy Lynch who (like most of us) used her own real life tendencies to write a charming story.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines the word Bridezilla as follows: A woman whose behavior in planning the details of her wedding is regarded as obsessive or intolerably demanding.
Now, it wouldn’t be fair of me to take another step before I get a little something off my chest. A teeny confession, if you will. Don’t judge me, OK? You see, I used to have mild bridezilla tendencies. It might explain how I found ‘Bride Without a Groom’ so easy to write. Phew, I feel so much better now that I’ve admitted it! The truth is that ninety-nine percent of the female population, at one point or another, has fantasized about what their perfect wedding might look like. And yes, I just completely made up that statistic. Sue me.
You see, for most of us growing up, we dreamed about being a glorious bride one day. It might be because of the brain washing Disney movies we watched over and over, featuring various princesses being rescued by princes whilst singing catchy songs. Or it could have been those bedtime fairy tales, with the happy ever after endings, usually involving wedding bells.
So, in order to complete my admission, I have to fess up to you about the following:
- At the tender age of seven, I dressed my Barbie dolls in various white lacy frocks, complete with tiara, and staged my very own dolly wedding, complete with handsome Ken and smiling relatives adorning the aisles. Now, here’s where it gets a little unusual. You see, the Barbie games all involved dramatic, wacky story lines. For example, brunette Cindy often made a scene at the wedding, storming up the aisle, and saying that Barbie had stolen her one true love. Catfights ensued. Often, Barbie bossed the shabbily dressed dolls about, demanding that they add more sequins to her wedding frock that very minute, and pouf her hair just as she likes it. Barbie then went on to have an affair with hunky-six-pack-blond-Malibu-beach Ken after marrying sensible brown-corduroy-trouser Ken. Malibu Ken had the red Ferrari and the pony stables, so go figure. Besides, sensible Ken just didn’t understand her. And Cindy was only jealous of her long flowing hair and flawless curves. With careful self-analysis, I have come to the conclusion that I may have been subjected to an alarming amount of daytime TV dramas such as Dallas and Eastenders. It could explain a lot.
- During my childhood, I climbed on my bed to reach the white net curtains, placed them over my head, bridal style. In my innocent mind, I was only gorgeous, and had an uncanny resemblance to Maria from The Sound of Music.
- On a loop, I sang ‘One Day My Prince Will Come’ until my sister told me to stick a cork in it, and threw a pillow at my head.
- In my teens, I attended a family wedding, closed my eyes, and imagined that it was in fact me, and not the real bride, swishing down the aisle in something dazzling.
- In my twenties, I accidentally on purpose guided my boyfriend in the direction of the jeweler’s window, and pointed at the sparklers, hinting heavily. I then graduated to driving him absolutely potty by constantly asking him to propose to me. He did, eventually. Thankfully, he has yet to divorce me, as I am still driving him mad.
- During the eighteen months of my engagement, I talked incessantly about wedding dresses, and what kind of bikini I should pack in my honeymoon suitcase.
- I’m in my thirties now, and am sad that I’ll never get to be a bride again. Friends of mine feel the same way. We have been known to have a night in, order a Chinese, drink cocktails, climb up to the attic and try on the our wedding dress. This is to relive the glory days, and prove that the dress still fits. We then pout in various poses, take selfies, and text these pictures to our husbands. Sadly, I’m not making this bit up.
But, sure, everyone woman does these things… don’t they?!
I’m feeling a bit silly now, so I’ll just add, in my defense, that I never crossed over into full blown Bridezilla territory. Rebecca, on the other hand, goes a step too far in ‘Bride Without A Groom’, by booking a priest, wedding dress and honeymoon before she has been proposed to! Sure, it’s no wonder that long suffering Barry has had quite enough. Who could blame him?
So, ladies, I ask you… is there a bridezilla in you? Even just a teeny bit?
Join us on Wednesday for copyeditor Nan Reinhardt
Bio: Irish author Amy Lynch writes humorous romantic fiction, but not always with fairy tale endings! She has been working in the charity sector for twelve years, is married and is the mother of two young children. When Amy is not writing, she can be found juggling school lunches and two Shetland pony-sized rescue dogs. Now, how’s that for multi-tasking? Amy is published by Harper Collins UK. Her debut ‘Bride without a groom’ is available on kindle or paperback
This is it. I can feel it. Four years of waiting for Barry to pop the question. Four years of hinting. Four years of dreaming and praying and wishing. Tonight’s the night.
He has chosen the perfect evening for it. You’ve got to give the man credit where credit is due. I mean, surprising me with an engagement ring on my thirtieth birthday in Jacques restaurant? It’s elegant class. I couldn’t have scripted it better.
I spied the velvet box last week, accidentally stumbling upon it when I was innocently vacuuming under the mattress. I’d already gone through his wardrobe and chest of drawers with a feather duster and rummaged through his bedside locker with a wet cloth. OK, OK, you’ve got me. I don’t dust. I don’t vacuum. I don’t wipe sticky things clean with wet cloths. Yuk! I admit it, I was snooping. But can you blame me? The suspense was killing me.
Fumbling with the box, so close to opening it, I heard the key in the door. Rumbled! Sneaking back later, he’d moved it. Next thing you know, he’s booked a table at the most pretentious restaurant in town. All deliciously suspicious behaviour.
The night is upon us. I have taken glam to a whole new level, even shelling out for a new posh frock, a designer one. The works! My tan is flawless, not pasty, not orange, just perfectly in the middle. My lipstick and shellac nails are a deep vixen red. It’s the kind of colour that says “Yes, I’ll marry you. And I’ll rip you apart in bed later.”
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