Published in On Our Selection News September 19, 2013

I don’t know if I’d say that I’m made of honour.

A couple of Fridays ago now, my second oldest sister popped round to the family home to casually mention that she was engaged. It was a nice moment, and we of course celebrated it they way most families would: by buying a few bottles of the most expensive bubbly we could find in Clifton at that hour (which was about 22 bucks from memory), and splashing out on $8 worth of hot chips to celebrate the date the proposal happened, being the 8th of the 8th month.

After the initial celebrations, when the riccadonna bottles were empty and I was on my way to bed, I realised that the whole betrothal was underpinned by sinister competition. With two other sisters also being asked to be bridesmaids, there was now an apparent deadly and dirty contest to be made Maid of Honour. And like any power hungry, control freak female who thinks that they have good taste, I wanted that title.

Not just because I’d have to yell at florists through a headset, wear a different coloured sash to the other bridesmaids, and get to plan a filthy Bachelorette party (which so far is set to consist of us watching Daddy Day Care and hiring a guy in a broccoli suit and a carrot suit), but because… I don’t know, I just wanted it.

I had already started campaigning for the job back in high school, making my sister promise to pick me, but now that there was a ring on the fing, I had to get serious. I was up against an older sister, and a very creative best friend who was also one year older – I had to bring out the big guns.

The engagement not only posed the challenge for me to find some poor schmuck to give me diamonds in two years time (or else she wins. Wow, maybe I am too competitive?), but the need to host a party of some kind. And this was my time to shine.

Given the occasion, the event had to be more than a carton and cobbloaf affair (although cobbloaf is a wonderful food- group. I’m still hopeful that someone will start up a drive-thru cobbloaf restaurant), so I had to step it up a notch.

I came up with decoration ideas, I pledged balls of deep fried risotto, I informed a friend in Townsville of the date immediately to allow her to book flights, and spent at least an hour in Lifeline choosing mismatched jars for vases.

All of this probably looked like I was just being a good sister, but the sinister scent of hidden agenda was lingering – it was like I was K-Rudd announcing his support for gay marriage a few months ago (which I applaud, but I am suspicious of the timing of that announcement). While there were no spotlight ads or horrible theme songs, I became ruthless in my campaign; I conspired with Grandma to make bunting out of offcuts from various Aunties’ bridal party dresses.

Sure, I was eventually given the envelope that contained the words “Maid of Honour” but I couldn’t help but wonder is was I an honourable maid? Had my guerilla tactics been ethical?

But I guess that’s exactly what got me the different coloured sash-noonewantsyoutobeethicalwhenyouyou’redealing with a bride who was delivered frangipanis instead of peonies?