Last weekend, I went to my cousin’s beautifully scientific wedding. To steal a line from beloved SNL figure and cultural correspondent Stefon, this wedding had everything: chemical reactions, the imperial death march as performed by lightening, a banjo, true love, a T-Rex wearing an eight-foot tie, and my dad “bustin’ a move.” Boston’s hottest wedding was—this one.
Whenever I think about weddings (much less go to one), I get an extreme case of wedding-envy, which isn’t good because I am barely an adult and do not have a groom-esque human in my life. For this reason, I’ve tried to pack away all my “I-want-it-nows!” into a mental, matrimonial fantasy, so that when I finally lock eyes with my sweet prince of a soul-mate while lounging on a piano in a Parisian cabaret (the premise I’ve chosen to initiate my love story), I will be ready.
First and foremost, I will be walking down the aisle to a string version of Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” flanked by my parents. (Sorry Dad, but you’re going to have to let Mom in on this deal, mostly because I love you both equally, but also to discourage the whole “giving me away” nonsense). I will not be wearing a traditional wedding dress, but not for any deep ideological reason. Please, many of my Friday nights have been spent watching “Bride Night” on TLC and sympathizing with the girls on Say Yes to the Dress when their sister/mother/snarky best friend gives them a disapproving once-over and compares them to a marshmallow, or a swan, or an ice dancer (but like, not even a good one). Come on! Let them have their day! And let me have mine, with a reasonably priced white dress that I’ll find at a department/thrift store for $100 or less.
Once my parents scoot me down the aisle in this affordable frock, I want the ceremony to be quick yet personal. I’ll read original vows that will include touching ruminations on my dearest knucklehead/imminent spouse and hilarious jokes that will ideally make everyone guffaw/audibly snort laugh. That, or I’ll adapt a Celtic marriage vow I stumbled across that stresses that “this is a marriage of equals” because that is my jam.
While recovering from my stand up routine, everyone will be handed a flute of bubbly and move on to the reception, which will be a veritable sunflower festival. I don’t have the entire aesthetic worked out so right now it’s just a blur of yellow petals and happiness. Maybe in a farmhouse. Maybe in my backyard. Probably not, considering most of the grass is dead.
And of course I’ll be DJ-ing because I don’t really trust anyone else. Maybe my groom, if I choose well enough. In addition to this role, I’ll split my time between being cornered into delightful small talk, starting conga lines that no one else wants to join, and sneaking away with my betrothed to share a sundae from the make your own sundae bar. Did I mention that there’s a make your own sundae bar? There is, and it’s very important to me.
The night will end with everyone gathering around for the last dance which will spontaneously transform into a highly choreographed routine to the Four Season’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” or perhaps “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” if I can find a lake to practice my lift in. Please forget I mentioned this so it’ll be a surprise in ten to fifteen years.
After that we’ll hop on a plane, train or automobile to embark on the honeymoon of a lifetime (TBA), settle down, start a family and share a wonderful life, tearing up whenever we hear Robert Plant’s raspy singing of “if the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you.” I’m almost crying now, just thinking about it.
Of course, this is all down the road—after all, the psychic I went to last summer told me that I would get married when I was 27 or 28. She also said I would meet my soul mate through work, and that he would be a doctor. By the transitive property, that would put me in the medical profession, which is totally hilarious. So I guess that means 27 or 28 isn’t hard and fast either.
All jokes aside (more or less), imagining my wedding allows me the satisfaction of two desires: it represents romantic hopefulness and hopeless romanticism, a hypothetical, preemptive celebration that serves to assure me that one day I will find myself in a fulfilling life partnership. But more simply, it allows me the indulgence of conceptualizing a giant party thrown in my honor where the aforementioned, weirdly specific elements are not questioned because this is my day, my terms. I shall have all the buckets of sunflowers and ice cream toppings I well please (within financial reason). I know that weddings inspire a spectrum of totally valid emotions; weddings (and marriage) aren’t for everyone. And who knows—maybe my idealization of this life event will pass. But for now, I really like the prospect of designing a personalized tribute to what will be one of the most important relationships in my life. And I really, really like the thought of having my own vat of hot fudge. Mmm.
So feel free to invite me to your weddings in the meantime. Let me live vicariously through your heartfelt toasts and bluegrass quartets. Let me dominate your dance floors and consume your cake. And when the time comes, I will swoop in front of your maid of honor to catch the bouquet. I will propose, or be proposed to, or both. I will unveil my master plan to my eventual (though assuredly dashing) fiancé and after his initial bewilderment about my predetermined specificities, we will plan this whole hullabaloo for real. And you’re all invited.*
*(Not really. But I can forward y’all the link to my Crate and Barrel registry.)
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