Last night I did the unthinkable. Like literally every other evening ever, I poured myself a glass of white blend and sat down in bed with a sack of tortilla chips and a tub of store-bought guac. I knew what I needed to do, but 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 Monday August 2nd at 9:37 p.m. 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?
Relax. I’m not losing much. The only things on that board were fancy wedding booze and enormous diamonds that I have no hope of wearing, lest I marry Prince Harry (unlikely, yes, but if you don’t plan for these moments you’ll look very foolish if they ever happen). 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 humblebrag an image of little tomboy me, age 10, 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 closer to “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. The problem is that we don’t 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 like seven vodka sodas 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. That shit could be a Friday night feature at Guantanamo).
I’m at a loss for what drives people to do this to themselves. Are they afraid of disappointing expectations? Does the bride hate her parents? Do they have a lingering fantasy that this day is going to be anything but an absolute shit show? I don’t want to spend my wedding day wondering why the chicken came out 18 minutes late or worrying that my great-uncle and third cousin will 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?
You can spend a small fortune on the event, but your nosy aunt will still utilize the next three Christmases to complain about your tacky centerpieces; you cannot win. You are also required to spend all day in a sausage casing with gossamer curtains attached to the bottom. Who decided wedding dresses had to be so fucking tight? And how the hell do you achieve the fabled sexy-but-not-sexual? And do you 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 my grandmother will know as well. I’m not sure whose wrath I fear more.
Throughout the entire day of the event is the foreboding feeling that you are in a room full of your closest family and friends while they all know you’re about six hours away from taking it from behind in the shower of a honeymoon suite. You literally have to spend the day on your dad’s arm and he knows for a fact that the night is going to end in very loud sex.
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. If I was there, I was not having a good time no matter how much I assured you otherwise. I did, however, take 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 Brad 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 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..
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