With this weekend brings the official start of something new for me in my adult stage – Wedding Season. I’m sure this isn’t a new phenomenon for other people my age, or even younger depending on location (I’ve unscientifically found that the age at which one marries and their distance to an ocean have an inverse relationship; the greater your distance from a coast, the lower your age is likely to be when you cross the threshold into holy matrimony) but I have an unprecedented 8 weddings this season, including my own, and not counting another wedding that falls on the same day as my sister’s Day. Some spring and summer months prior have brought a white dress here and there, but I will be clocking two a month, at least, until October. There’s even the Royal Wedding (which I don’t know why on earth we care about that one – we’ve not been British for over 200 years) getting all kinds of coverage from even totally reputable sources. Needless to say I have, for many reasons, drawn neigh to my Wedding Saturation Point – the unspecific but certainly tangible place I may reach that will no doubt involve me throwing all things white, blue, borrowed, or adorned with tulle out into the East River.
Not to say that I don’t like weddings – I do. I’m a frequent crier at weddings, brought to tears by the physical manifestations of love in the smallest things like napkin rings and picture frames, and larger acts like friends or family singing, reading, or in other ways showing support as two people state publicly that this is For Life. Having now half planned a wedding of my own, I do see the way that the small things tie together…sort of, and am of the frank opinion that no one, no matter how much they love intricate details would spend the hours upon hours debating the value of rose versus champagne napkins, linen versus silk, etc. if they were not overwhelmingly in love.
The thing that seems to be getting to me, just a bit, lately is the emphasis on The Day. I’m older, I admit it, and many of my friends are now marrying people that we all knew were The Ones. There’s no shock as names appear together as parents or parents-in-law invite me to “Share in their joy as they…” bond two names that were always linked. Even with my own wedding, all of the debates about when and where and for how long we’re apart aside, I don’t think even my father, when he’s honest with himself, was at all shocked that this is A Thing. So I’m tickled to witness two perfectly matched people publicly bond their lives legally and depending on their beliefs, in the eyes of God. I just am having a hard time shining it on for the production.
People are allowed to make any choices they want. Some truly spend lifetimes dreaming of the song that would announce their entrance into the view of their loved ones. Others put real time into aligning the meaning of the flowers they’ve chosen with the characteristics that define their relationship. There are flower girls to choreograph, families to arrange, seating charts to consider, paper products to coordinate – depending on the wedding blog you read there is enough to keep you busy for literal years as you assemble the Perfect Day. To me and my own indifference about the matching of anything, however, it all feels just a touch Hollywood for me – directors and retakes and touch-ups and the production crew… No real judgment but man, is it all worth it?
I understand that I am a rare breed of bride – the almost indifferent kind. I didn’t have to decide on a dress, because I’m wearing my mother’s. My bridesmaids have all been instructed to put on a dress. If it can be blue, great, but if not, another color works, too. I am excited about my DJ, but mostly because I like her style (in truth, I want to be friends…so badly!) and am relieved that I won’t have to spend time creating lists of Must Plays and Do Not Plays. The food will be stations, allowing my guests to eat when and what they like. The rehearsal dinner will be beer, pizza, and wings at the boathouse on the Erie Canal. I don’t have a theme, color scheme, any flowers really picked out yet, and am trying to talk my makeup girl into getting all of my girls Done within the span of 90 minutes.
I do feel some kind of way about a few things – I want pictures to be short but as inclusive as possible (read: I want all the family members to have an appearance, but there will be no driving around to get pictures of us casually wandering through the streets of Buffalo looking blissful). The vows will include some variation of what Ruth said to Naomi – “Where you sleep, I will sleep, where you go, I will go…” probably mostly to reassure myself that someday, maybe, those words will actually be true. My childhood pastor will perform the ceremony, and I’ve made almost everything else that I can so that we can afford to feed and entertain as many of our close friends and family as possible.
I do, however, in anticipation of all of this, hate the question that I’m asked multiple times a week: “Aren’t you so excited!?” I dread it because the answer is what people never want to hear, and what I’m never allowed to say for fear of all of the judgment that I anticipate being heaped upon my pending union. Am I excited? Sure… I am excited to have all of my favorite people together. I am excited because ManFriend’s grandmother will finally be able to witness what she’s been plotting for almost a decade. I do want a picture of me in my mother’s dress and a pair of DJ headphones pressed to my ear. But am I SO excited? Meh. He was and is The One. He has been since I was a sophomore in college, describing him to my grandmother who implored from the sunroom table, “Well, you might break up.” And we did, a few times, but never for long. ‘Till death do us part is a lovely sentiment to say in front of my family, but it’s been true for a long time. We’ve got the “for better or for worse” part down and have been living the part of domestic and financial partners for almost 5 years now.
Maybe I’ll feel differently on The Day. But I really don’t expect to – and I certainly don’t want to get caught up in the small things that will invariably go wrong during The Day. Because after all, it is just a day, and as my very wise New Jersey friend likes to remind me, life is long. There will be, if we’re lucky, so many wonderful days to celebrate going forward – and those won’t require monogrammed paper napkins.
