It isn't that I don't like weddings. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I'm totally a fan. Think about it: a wedding basically consists of all of my favorite things rolled into one great big fancy champagne-soaked package. First, semi-formal attire is required. So not only am I given an excuse to wear a slinky cocktail dress and the type of high-heeled shoes that I once, while admiring the Louboutin selection at Neiman Marcus, heard a mother describe to her daughter as shoes that "will totally get you laid," but I am enabled to go out and buy new ones because wearing boring old things will obviously bring bad luck upon the blessed union. Second, celebratory drinking is encouraged. Third, there is cake. Fourth, there is dancing. Fifth, people I haven't seen since I was 12, fat, and generally tragic-looking ooh and aah effusively about how lovely I've become. It's a healthy ego boost. Plus, I'm all for eternal love and devotion...for other people. Good for them! If we were all neurotic and commitment-shy like me, humans would have been extinct millenia ago!
(Actually, I think that I'm mostly just obnoxiously choosy. I read something yesterday that talked about how men are afraid of commitment in general, while women are afraid of commitment to the wrong person. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it. Because I like the idea of commitment in theory; it's just that I have a hard time accepting the fact that my soul mate might think Coldplay is the height of musical innovation, or tell inappropriate stories about necrophilia in mixed company, or be a hot prospect for an MLB team that isn't the Red Sox, or be under six feet tall, or an actual real-life drug dealer, or far too enthusiastic about mutual funds. All of which have been causes for dismissal in the past. But this is not the point I'm trying to make.)
Weddings, delightful though they are, are a bit of a drain on the resources. You have to buy a multitude of gifts - shower gifts and wedding gifts. Gifts are costly. Also, I'm sort of opposed to the concept of a gift registry on principle. My mother maintains that they prevent people from giving you duplicates and/or crap that you don't want, but I say that's life. I get crap I don't want on a variety of gift-giving occasions, but you don't see me registering my Christmas list at Macy's. So I have a policy of giving cookbooks. Because if you don't cook, you should. I would give Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook, but despite it's unmatched practicality, it would sort of make me look like a passive-aggressive bitch.
Then, there are a lot of incidentals. Particularly when you are a member of the wedding party. There's the dress, which is never under $150, and almost certainly too prom-like to ever be worn again. There are the shoes, often dyed-to-match, but in the case of Bethann's wedding, in any variation on silver. I took mine out of my bag when we were getting ready and Bethann said appraisingly, "Wow, those are definitely Renee shoes!" What does that even mean? That they're tall and fashionable? As opposed to everyone else's boring, conventional low-heeled shoes? God. Anyway, then you have to get your hair done, in this case at Salon Capri in Newton, which, because it is the chichi salon where all the news anchors go (although I don't know why that is a plus...maybe because at a wedding, hair that can withstand high winds and torrential downpours is preferred), can get away with charging $65 for an updo. Oh, and then in this specific case, there was also a cab ride from Somerville to Newton - I won't tell you how much it cost because it was obscene, but suffice it to say that I could have flown to most cities on the East Coast for less.
Whining about finances aside, both weddings were lovely. I was in a monumentally bad mood on the way to Meghan's due to a sore back that was being exacerbated by my too-high heels (too high for my sore back, not too high in general, for is there any such thing?), bad weather, and the fact that it required me to drive a car on a highway in traffic. My disposition was brightened only slightly when a DSW magically appeared on the side of the road and I was able to buy not only the aforementioned silver shoes, which in addition to meeting Bethann's wedding shoe requirements were less high than those I had on and rather fetching with that evening's Valentino (you know I'm a classy broad, and classy broads don't buy their semi-formal attire at JCPenney), but also a pair of sassy purple suede and black patent leather spectator pumps. And I wonder why I never have any money. I wasn't planning on staying late. After all, I had to drive, and I have difficulty not drinking when there is free alcohol to be had. I should have brought a date/chauffeur, but I didn't want to babysit all night. Sometimes, dates cramp my style, and besides, weddings are noted hotbeds for singles. Case in point: the best man somehow acquired my number and has now taken to calling me, from Florida, just to chat, at extremely inconvenient times. Anyway, it seems I have this chronic inability to leave a dance floor as long as there is music playing, and so I wound up staying through the last song. And perhaps drinking more of that free alcohol than I should have. But, while I was probably just a smidgen over the legal limit, the recognition of that fact resulted in much better driving on my part out sheer paranoia. The proof is in the amount of time it took me to park compared to the previous evening - 10 minutes versus 27.
Then, there was Bethann's wedding. I wish I could say that I was an exemplary maid of honor. She seemed to think I did just fine, but maybe I just hold myself to an extremely high standard, because I thought I was a disappointment, for a few reasons.
First, I was unable to straighten her train to my satisfaction during the ceremony because my dress had a vise-like grip on my torso and every time I crouched down it slipped just a little further south and stayed there, rendering me terrified that I might accidentally wind up flashing God, Father John, and the whole congregation. Thankfully, I was overestimating the relative size-of-dress to size-of-thorax ratio, and ultimately a nip slip was not a physical possibility.
Then, during the pre-introduction cocktail hour, I dropped a cracker loaded high with cheese spread down my dress, leaving a trail of creamy gorgonzola down my skirt, and proceeded to lament at high volume about how I should never have left my Tide pen in the room before sending some poor waiter off on a club soda-seeking mission. Also during the pre-introduction cocktail hour, her sister-in-law Rachel and I singlehandedly (doublehandedly?) polished off two entire bottles of Freixenet, and I either impressed or horrified all present parties with my champagne (cava?) bottle opening abilities because I was too impatient to wait for the bartender.
The best man and I did manage to refrain from having a walk-off during our introduction (although we practiced our best Blue Steels in the hallway), so that was probably good. But then my mother, who is a horrible influence, practically force-fed me the wine that she had been hoarding (okay, no one would ever have to force-feed me wine), and once the open bar closed post-cocktail hour, not only did Bethann's dad continue to buy me drinks, but the bartender decided that I shouldn't have to pay and poured me a Kahlua gratis. It was apparently Let's-Get-the-Maid-of-Honor-Drunk Day. Granted, I was still soberer than many others there, as evidenced when, at the end of the night, Bethann's mother of all people convinced me to CRASH THE WEDDING NEXT DOOR with her. Seriously, I am trouble sometimes, and extremely susceptible to peer (elder?) pressure.
I was pretty bummed that I didn't get to give a toast, though, since I had a fabulous one brewing - did you know that the first time I ever remember meeting Bethann, she was also wearing a white dress in a church? It was our First Communion. And she wouldn't let me sit next to her. For a long time, the story was that it was because she was feeling snobbish about her frilly socks, whereas I had much less fashionable white tights, and so she was too cool for the likes of me. But then one day it occurred to us to look at a picture of the occasion, whereupon our theory was proven wrong by the photographic evidence that Bethann was indeed also wearing white tights. Anyway, I was spinning that into an adorable, charming speech (true fact: I am possibly the best toast-giver ever in history; ask anyone who has witnessed one because they are magical and/or wonderfully saucy, whichever the event warrants) when I was informed that only the best man would be speaking. Hmmph. Oh well.
So now, it is safe to say that I am weddinged out. Which actually is a good thing, because for a period of time I was all depressed that people my age were getting married while I was in a state of romantic arrested development. Now everything is back in perspective. I'm happy for you all, but I need a few years yet. I'm much too young and reckless and selfish to be somebody's wife.
Now if I could just figure out another way to get people to buy me obscure kitchen appliances like deep fryers and pasta makers and bread machines...
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