Why I Don’t Hook Up at Weddings
(For the most part)
About 9 months before April of 1984, my parents decided that one child wasn’t enough. So they got themselves in the mood, and my dad infected my mom with the worst STD possible: fetusitis — otherwise known as pregnancy.
It’s really quite gruesome, so if you’re reading this to your child, maybe skip this part: Once infected, a parasitic organism implants itself inside the host’s body. It grows and grows, stealing the host’s food and forcing her to lug the extra pounds around. All of this accompanied by nausea, frequent urination, and mood swings. Finally, after nine grueling months, the parasite actually forces its way out of the body through the host’s — get this — vagina. Gross!
Medical advancements have resulted in a cure for fetusitis (if detected early), but in most cases, the host and the man who infected her actually form a loving bond with the parasite, and they decide to keep it as a pet, resulting in hardships alongside many benefits. Such was the case with my parents, and here I am.
For those born in the early-to-mid ‘80’s, there are plenty of benefits bestowed upon us due to that timing. For one, we were out of college by the time social media + cameraphones exploded. Had I been born but a few years later, there no doubt would videos floating around the internet, with me in a borderline-blackout state, acting like a jackass while Asher Roth’s “I Love College” plays in the background. Shudder.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that a lot of movies have come out when I was just the right age for them. Jurrasic Park came out in 1993 — when I was 9! Dinosaurs were fucking everything to me back then, and here comes a movie with revolutionary special effects where the dinos look real as fuck, plus there’s killer John Williams theme music to boot.
Can’t Hardly Wait dropped just as I was entering high school, giving hope to all of us semi-awkward nerds that we would eventually end up with our Amanda Becketts. As you probably gathered from accompanied picture to the previous Cooties Report entry, Can’t Hardly Wait is one of my favorite high school movies. Largely because of its timing.
Freshman year of college brought Old School, providing some of the best laughs I’ve ever had in a movie theater (along with Ace Ventura and Team America). That movie was probably largely responsible for my decision to join a fraternity. Don’t judge. And don’t worry — our unofficial slogan was “99% Frat Free.”
Of course, for every chronological hit like the above, there’s a near miss. Old School ushered in a golden age of comedic talent on the silver screen, perhaps peaking with 2005's Wedding Crashers. My friends didn’t start getting married for a few years after that, but that didn’t stop me from entering my first few receptions and proclaiming myself “Chambers O’Toole; I’m ready to get drunk.”
All of this is a long-winded way of getting to today’s subject: weddings. Crashers gave all of us a preview to what our summers would be like for the next 10–15 years. The Wedding Industrial Complex is real, and while it serves to highlight the height of American indulgence, it also makes for some pretty damn good parties. Everyone is always in a good mood, and I’ve found it’s pretty much impossible not to have a good time.
Now, the common narrative around weddings is that they’re fertile ground for hooking up. But that’s not what this post is about. Rather, this is a post to defend my track record at weddings, which is not exactly the stuff of legend.
When a friend or family member’s wedding is approaching, I’m usually interested in hearing about the ladies that might be going after the thrown bouquet. And I’ve done okay in that regard, at times. But quite frankly, its not my primary focus, for a myriad of reasons.
There are too many other people to see.
For whatever reason, most of the weddings I have been to (as an adult) have been for college friends. It’s seems like once a year, another one bites the dust. Which works out perfectly, because it gives us all an excuse to reunionize for a weekend. Do I really want to spend that time following some stranger around, when I could be dancing my face off and singing my lungs out with my friends? Nah, dog. I’d rather get nostalgic and reminisce about that epic game of Flip Cup we had that one time.
[Side note: why did we never invent a game called Strip Cup? Seems like a missed opportunity there, boys.]
You’re under a microscope.
With those aforementioned college friends, it’s basically a running joke that I keep showing up alone while everyone else keeps pairing off. And without fail, a few of these friends will take it upon themselves to investigate the available talent, hoping they’ll get to witness some sparks. And who can blame them? Courtship in real-time is probably the best kind of people-watching. So thanks, guys and gals (and cousins), for scouting out the ringless community for me, but it’s kind of hard to operate when you’re watching me as if you’re trying out for the NSA. Commenting on my every move like it’s a sporting event. Shit, there have been times when the parents of my would-be “arranged one-night-stand” partner have been there. No thanks.
Competition can be high.
As is the case with literally everywhere, single men tend to outnumber single women at weddings. At least in my experience. And because we’re taught that hooking up at weddings is like shooting fish in a barrel, every dude is anxious to get their work in. So now not only am I spending time away from my friends, but I’ve got to box out some other hornball just to have a shot? And I might not even win! (Although, come on, have you seen this face?)
It’s a logistical nightmare.
Even if I do manage to pull it off, what then? As I’m leaving with the girl, I can already hear that Sunday morning brunch-gossip developing amongst the crowd we’re walking away from. And then, chances are I’ve split my hotel room with a friend or two, because what do I look like — a Rockefeller? So if I hang my tie on the door nob, that buys me, what, like 30 minutes? Having a timer on your sexual encounters sure does make for a great experience. Said no one ever.
My focus at weddings is two-fold: drinking and dancing. Granted, those can be two important ingredients for funny business, but meh if I’m going to make that my objective.
A lot of people have compared this little blog project to Carrie Bradshaw’s column in Sex and the City. As such, I leave you with this final paragraph, to be read in her voice:
As I went to bed that night — alone — I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Or worse, failed a test. Are we so obsessed with fairy tale endings that we demand that each one spawn two more? Why is there so much pressure to find The One (or at least a one-nighter) while celebrating someone else? What would be so bad about having a good time and just letting the chips fall where they may?
Meanwhile, Uptown…
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