I know this happens to like fucking every girl around the age of 30—at least in New York—but there is a huge gap opening between my friends who get swept up by weddings, and those of us who don’t. And I don’t mean this as a divide between the have-had-weddings and have-not-had-weddings. It’s more like, you decide that you’re going to be supportive of extravagant weddings and people who want to have them, or you are going to swear them off, and complain about them all of the time.
Fortunately for me, the decision was an easy one. Even if I get married, I know I won’t ever have a big wedding. Let’s just say that the flick “Rachel Getting Married” isn’t a fictional story. It’s a fable about my own wedding made by a director who must know my family from a past life. I took it as a personal warning.
But even if my family wasn’t fucking nuts, I still wouldn’t waste either the time or the money on a wedding.
According to TheKnot.com, the average cost of a wedding in the United States is $27,000, which is more than the mean average income, and close to what I’ll make this year. At this point in my writing career, I cannot imagine a scenario in which I’d be like, “Should I write this short story, or should I spend the next eight hours listening to demos of cover bands on MySpace?” But that could change if someone gave me a billion dollars and I found out I was going to live forever.
The entire point of this stupid blog post is to say that I loved “Dearly Beloved” by Susanna Wolff, a Shouts and Murmurs piece in the New Yorker. It satirizes a fake wedding, but still manages to sound like almost every wedding I’ve been to thus far in my life.
And, as a disclaimer, I’m happy for all of my friends who are getting married.