I received a perplexing email yesterday, from an old school friend.
“Good news!!! Brian and I are tying the knot…3rd time lucky, knock on wood!! So whip out your diaries and pen in these dates for:
1. My hen weekend (hint: I’d <blush> love some racy bride-to-be lingerie! I’ve also got some fun planned: so pack a box of paints, a feather boa and a sense of humour!)
2. Our joint hen/stag night out (RSVP right away to book your spot on the booze bus! Let’s party while we’re still free! Right?!)
3. And last but not least…the wedding in the Stellenbosch winelands! (Book your hotel now, everyone! No kids. And click here for our gift registry links!)”
I found a lot of things upsetting about this email, not limited to the offensive use of exclamation marks.
Am I the most jaded person on the planet or is this “wedding extravaganza” approach a bit much for a third wedding? Far be it from me to question another’s love, but do I really have to take leave and get a week’s worth of babysitting for you AGAIN?
When did celebrating a couple become such a lengthy, programmed narcissism fest? And when did middle-aged women decide that acting like a 22-year-old actually turns back the clock?
You hear horror stories of Bridezillas who fire bridesmaids who can’t get enough time off work to “really dedicate yourself to my dress shopping”, but these are the selfish foibles of little people who haven’t even broken out of their me-me-me cocoons yet. Surely?
Clearly I have become the Wedding Grinch. But my friends and I are mostly 40+ now, and all pretty aware of the fact that no matter how much Kahil Gibran you read at your wedding, long term love is a bit of a crapshoot. I want to wish you the best, but I no longer need to act like you are leaving for a frat house on another planet to do it.
So no. I don’t want to drink green shots while linking arms and toasting the last of your “freedom”. I don’t want to paint a male nude at an Art Jamming place. I don’t want to play strip poker, adorned with feather boas. I don’t want to get on an all-night vomity party bus, and I especially don’t want to sit through the farce of you opening yet another round of “ooh, how NAUGHTY” virginal wedding night lingerie.
Now an email like this:
“Hey guys, Brian and I have decided to get married. We’d love you to come celebrate with us. The wedding’s on this date at that time, we’ll be staying a few days at this hotel if you feeling like making a weekend of it.
And seriously, no pressure re presents: we have 2 houses of stuff from you guys already. Although, here are our bank account details: if you want to put some money into the gaping maw that is our bond, we’re not gonna say no.”
Don’t you want to go to that wedding? I do. Pragmatism. The New Romanticism.
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