“I’m probably going to get married in Vegas”; or, “Sorry Mom”
Last night I managed to do the unthinkable.
I poured a glass of white blend and sat down in bed with my cat, a sack of tortilla chips and a tub of store-bought quac. I admit that I stalled for a few moments. I opened my laptop, checked my email, dabbled in a few of my favorite beauty blogs, composed a snarky tweet. Eventually, though, it was time. It took willpower, and I had to swallow a bit of guilt, but on Sunday July 10th at 9:37 p.m. in my bedroom under my favorite Clash poster and a quilt my yiayia made me, I deleted my wedding board on Pinterest.
Gasp! Why would you, how could you, what will you do when you actually have to plan a wedding? You’ll have to start over. Oh, the horror.
Relax. I’m not losing much. The only things on that board were booze and honeymoon destinations. Actually, deleting this board was a big fat metaphor for a more consequential decision that I made recently. I don’t want to have a wedding.
If you weren’t gasping before, I am sure you are now. Why would I decide to opt out of “the happiest day of my life?” The truth is that I have never been a wedding person. I wasn’t the little girl who fantasized about veils and flower arches and overpriced cake with too much frosting. Maybe you think I’m missing a woman gene, and if you do admit to thinking such things I must admit to thinking you’re a dumb ass. And no, I’m not trying to humble-brag an image of me, age 8, covered in Spider Man band-aids and eating dirt on a softball field. I played princess with the best of them. I just genuinely thought that planning a wedding in the sixth grade was stupid, and not a lot has changed.
I don’t understand what has happened to wedding culture. I can’t think of a single time I’ve gone to the mailbox to pull out a champagne-colored envelope with “Mike and Brittany” embossed across the front and was happy about it. Normally, my reaction is quite the opposite— something along the lines of, “Fuck, didn’t they just get engaged?” It’s just one more gift I need to buy, one more long-ass candle lighting to sit through, one more awkward rendition of the cha-cha slide to bust out in front of people I don’t fucking know.
I am not anti-marriage. I would like to get married. I think marriage ceremonies are wonderful things to celebrate. My issue lies in the fact that we no longer celebrate marriage, we celebrate the dress or DJ or desserts. What are we all doing at these weddings? I haven’t spoken to Brittany in 4 months. I met Mike one time at a bar a year ago. If we are being honest, I was three Jack-and-Diet’s deep, and I doubt I could pick him out of a crowd were it not for the cheesy photo of them on the save-the-date. Why am I buying a $50 wedding gift? Why are they paying for my dinner, plus a guest? (Don’t get me started on having to find a date to a wedding. That shit could be a Friday night feature at Guantanamo).
I’m at a loss for what drives people to do this to themselves. Expectations? A vendetta against the bride’s parents? A lingering fantasy that this day is going to be anything but an absolute train wreck? I don’t want to spend my wedding day wondering why the chicken came out 18 minutes late or worrying that my great-uncle will see my third cousin and start a brawl. I don’t even like my great uncle, or my third cousin. I am getting married. I am agreeing in a very permanent, legal way to stay with the same man forever. Living with, married to and having sex with one. Man. For life. Who gives a shit what color the table linens are.
The expense is obscene. Nobody cares what you get right, but God forbid something goes wrong. Your nosy aunt will spend the next three Christmases complaining about your tacky centerpieces. Also, wedding dresses… why? You have to spend all day in a sausage casing with gossamer curtains attached to the bottom. How do I achieve the fabled sexy-but-not-sexual? And do I wear white, or not? Because my family is southern baptist and while God definitely knows I’m not a virgin, if I wear a different color so will my Granny. I’m not sure whose wrath I fear more. Not to mention, we are breaching on one of many examples of patriarchal and sexist symbolism — white dresses, the bride’s family being expected to pay, a father handing his daughter to another man. All of these make me cringe, but who draws the line between sexism and tradition? How do I tell my father I don’t want him to walk me down the isle because I am an I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T woman, surfboard?
Maybe you had a wedding, maybe it was the greatest day of your life, maybe you married the man/woman of your dreams, and maybe you don’t regret a thing… but I doubt it. However, if I was there, I can assure you I was not having a good time no matter how beautiful I told you the shindig was. That being said, I took full advantage of the free champagne and probably one of your groomsmen. That’s right Brittany, I was the reason it took the photographer half an hour to find Tom for pictures, and I regret nothing.
And Brittany, if you don’t receive an invitation for my wedding, fret not. We packed up our dogs and immediate family and headed to Vegas for the weekend, but the announcement is coming. I remember the day I parted with $48.99 to buy you that automatic wine opener, and I expect you to return the favor.
