My best friend is engaged.
The news came two weeks ago, like a really, really brilliant firework - but one that thumped me right in the chest.
Ellie and I have been friends since university. She was a fox who never left a party early and found it hilarious to bite bums when she was drunk. I spent all my time with her. Since we graduated, we only got closer though we were separated by distance, across the country, forging our way into jobs we didn’t really know how to do. We still are. Now we’re so close that in my mind our ten-year Frieniversary - next year - was the next (and only) big rite of passage I was headed for.
Sure, she’d bought a house, but that’s just bricks and mortar (and a hefty mortgage). I meanwhile, had successfully procured a fully functioning toaster (something which has, for years, evaded me) and navigated moving in with my boyfriend without life coming to an end. We’d reached a tenable level of responsibility. There was no need for anymore upheaval.
And then, two weeks ago, it changed. No more plain sailing, ignoring life goals headed our way. No more pretending that we were still only just beginning our 20s, declaring we were each other’s ‘The One’. She got a ring. Adulthood hit. And now, despite the fact I knew that she’d got him five years ago when they first got together, it was official that another ‘One’ had been found. Her brilliant boyfriend officially gets her for life, and I’m now an unofficial ‘Two’.
I went a bit on the defence. Or the pretence, depending on which way you look at it. As we celebrated in the only way you can with a friendship that’s withstanding the north-south divide - with a three-hour FaceWine (like the pub, but over the internet) - I immediately started chatting about ‘our’ wedding. ‘What sort of dress should we get?’ I asked. ‘Have we seen any fun venues? What are we thinking about colour schemes?’
If I didn’t pretend - by which I mean, wholeheartedly convince myself - that it was us getting married; the perfect ceremony to commemorate our decade-long, wine-fuelled friendship, I knew the anxiety would come. And, sure enough, half way through our chat, it hit me - the firework thump. What if marriage means we drift apart? What if we don’t have as much in common? Do married people still pass out in the sofa at 4am on a Saturday night? Am I a shit friend for even thinking this?
And then I realised, yes - yes, though it was probably quite natural, I was being a bit shit for thinking it. Because as we planned our first trip to drink a wedding dress shop dry of Prosecco, I realised that things weren't really changing that much, yet. I was overreacting. I realised that this means we now get a whole load of new memories to laugh at, take the piss out of and keep. Even if we, for whatever reason, didn't speak quite as much when she's a married woman - jesus, that's weird - I'll just get slightly less of a mate who is exceeds all others. It's worth the risk.