I met Lizzie when I was seven. If you’d told me then that 21 years later we’d be sat on my living room floor talking about whether she’ll ever get to try naan bread, I’d have been very confused. Firstly, it’s because we grew up on the Isle of Wight and naan had yet to cross the Solent in the 90s. Secondly, what we were talking about wasn’t naan bread at all.

Lizzie is getting married this year. She’s been with her fiancé for seven years. It’ll be a small gathering without any bridesmaids as otherwise there’d be no-one sat down. I’d like to start by stating she does want to get married. This conversation wasn’t so much a cry for help as a dawning realisation. The entire weight of being married, of becoming a wife. It’s a pivotal point in her life. In her eyes, by choosing one option, she eradicates all others.

She is my oldest friend and we know each other’s worst secrets, but talking about sex when sober is unbearable to us. We both have a stress rash on our chests. We’re giggling just as we did aged 13, calling the sex line to find out what a blowjob was.

It’s a delicate subject and, as such, we treated it maturely and discreetly, by replacing what we meant with food items.

Lizzie has been eating ham and cheese sandwiches for seven years. She likes ham and cheese. She likes it so much she hasn’t thought of another sandwich in all that time. She doesn’t think she wants another kind of sandwich, but she knows when she gets married the buffet will close. She will no longer have options. Whilst this is good in many ways – no more egg and cress nightmares – it closes the door on canapés she has yet to try.

One sandwich, forever.

Now she’s tried her fair share of food at the table (not to say she’s greedy). Her concern is the ones she has unknowingly overlooked.

“The thing is, what if I never get to try naan bread? Pineapple sticks? Or those little salmon pancake things?”

We go on to discuss how lots of people tried a smorgasbord at uni. One of our friends even had a bit of a quiche phase. Neither of us did. Did we miss out?

Whilst I assured her I’m sure her fiancé would be thrilled to hear about her being buffet curious, we knew the conversation was about more than food.

Both of our parents divorced when we were children. This set a precedent for us as young girls. We didn’t long for a prince charming or a big white wedding. Marriage seemed pointless. The entire day full of silliness, all topped off by having to throw away perfectly good flowers and share your cake. We never said we wouldn’t do it, but at some point, it was implied – except for Patrick Swayze or Jonathan Creek.

Neither of us had our dresses picked out, our songs or venues. Films led us to believe this wasn’t normal. That as little girls, we should be covering our heads with toilet roll. You’d be more likely to find us covered in mud.

I’m not surprised or disappointed that Lizzie is getting married. I’m happy for her. In all likelihood, I’ll do it as well one day, if only for the big cake. But this wedding marks the start of a new phase. One that I don’t think any of us are sure we’re ready to dive into.

Whilst it can be fun playing the grown-up: doing your tax return on time, planning the big shop, eating kale… sometimes it still feels like pretend. Marriage is the unveiling of the make-believe.

Teachers are married. So are vicars, bankers and parents. Not us. We’re still just kids.

Of course, this is not what I said to her. Instead, I assured her of how exciting I’m sure marriage will be. How it’s the same as sharing a mortgage except rather than crippling debt, you get a party for this one. Although I wouldn’t call this lying, my heart was not in it.

What irks me the most is the normality of it. It’s so utterly mundane. Marriage is uninspiringly normal. Even this conversation about being with just one person forever. It’s a cliche. It’s everything we had planned our lives wouldn’t be. We dreamt of being actresses, living in faraway countries and having all the time in the world to do whatever we wanted.

Marriage is the explosion on a time bomb we didn’t know was ticking.

I’m sure I’ll spend much of her wedding day being assured that ‘I’m next’. The sort of reassurance that’s akin to someone telling you that you “don’t look fat in that,” when you hadn’t asked their opinion.

I live with my partner, we own our flat, we have a cat and a weekly shopping list on the fridge. We’re even becoming those people who just happen to have wine in. We’ve started running together. Christ, we’re awful.

And I do love it. It’s nice putting up pictures and binge-watching Homes under the Hammer. Yet I find myself asking – is this it? I’m torn between buying new curtains or packing it all in and running away. This is purgatory for the child who dreamt herself a heroine, but instead has the dreary reality of normal. I flirt with the idea of my life without my boyfriend, my flat, my belongings. It would be irresponsible, childish and flippant. I would be lonely. Yet the desire to pack my bag never subsides.

Then there are days, perfect days, where it seems like no time has passed. Lizzie and I are kids again licking the flavour off salt and vinegar crisps, sat on the living room floor. We might be moaning about our jobs or the cost of wedding cakes, but it’s still us. A couple of kids growing up together.

I reassure my best friend, “But you love ham and cheese sandwiches… and I guess if things get boring after a while, you could always try adding pickle.”

– Becky Tanner-Rolf

Author’s Note: “Naan Bread” is a response to the expected, a rebuttal to settling down, and a realisation that life moves on whether you want it to or not.