Dear bridal magazines…
A breakup.
Dear bridal magazines,
I think it’s best if we end this thing. It’s not you, it’s me.
When my partner and I were planning our wedding two years ago, I welcomed your unannounced arrival in my mailbox. Without a second thought, I took you back to my apartment and flipped through your pages with a passion I usually reserve for morose short story collections.
We did it everywhere — curled up on the couch in front of the TV; in the kitchen while waiting for a dish to cook; and late nights and early mornings in my bedroom.
What can I say? I was new to this sort of thing, and you made me smile.
But as our relationship continued during the next few months, I grew to resent the cookie-cutter styling; the “tips” designed to add to your to-do list, increase your stress and drain your wallet; and the unrealistic, cheesy poses in almost every photo.
And I have trouble understanding why you’re drawn to me in the first place:
A) My hair is uncontrollable, I rarely brush it, and I like it that way. When my wedding day arrived, I washed my hair, added some sea-salt spray, towel-dried it and hoped for the best. (Note: It was awesome.)
B) I don’t do eye makeup. On my wedding day, I put on some simple black mascara, and I was good to go.
C) My wedding dress ultimately cost less than $1,000. I didn’t feel comfortable buying something that cost more than my car to wear for only a few hours, ever. Plus, I looked slammin in my awesome, inexpensive dress.
I know opposites can attract, but it quickly became apparent that we are not meant for each other. But don’t despair: Just because you and I aren’t a perfect match doesn’t mean that someone else doesn’t love you. And sure, we still have fun every now and then.
Just last week I picked you out of the recycling bin, flipped through your pages, and cut out all of your models’ eyes. In the middle of my butchery, I stopped to read an article on the importance of the quickie, which I also cut out and pasted to my partner’s closet before dumping you back in the bin with the orange juice carton.
I am Sid Vicious, and you are Nancy Spungen. Please leave me.
I’m no good for you, baby.
I’ll still occasionally raid your pages for collage material if you’d like, but these days I’m much more concerned with the impact our unhealthy relationship is having on the environment. Deforestation, dioxin contamination, air pollution, and water pollution are all unattractive byproducts of magazine production.
And let me get this straight: I LOVE magazines. Love, love, love them.
But the magazines I love are the ones I subscribe to. The books, newspapers and zines I consume are the ones I seek out. Occasionally a friend or family member will send a publication my way, and I welcome those personalized, thoughtful recommendations — those are sweet.
What isn’t sweet is having my personal data and mailing address plundered from an online bridal registry, and then being bombarded each month with useless advertisements for wedding dresses and makeup that all too often end up in landfills, unread. Your persistence isn’t charming. It’s pathetic, and it’s wasteful.
You’ll say that, like the intentions of my family and friends, you’re in my mailbox because you think we’re a good match. I mean, I was engaged, dammit. And remember the good times? The late-night page flipping? All of the choices about how to communicate a couple’s personality and love for each other in this oh-so-important ritual?
That was two years ago.
My partner and I are now happily married. We had a hell of wedding. It was so much fun dancing and laughing with our families and friends, and WE GOT MARRIED!!! That’s the most important part, right? Fuck the candles in our centerpieces.
Now he and I are focused on making decisions for our future, and enjoying the hell out of our present.
I think it’s best if you and I don’t see each other again. I’m a different person than the fiancée who brought you into her home two years ago, and I don’t see us being friends.
I promise not to make a scene if we pass each other on the street. I may even have a smile for the person holding you — her life’s about to change, after all. But it’s not because of you.
