“Well, we were just engaged two weeks ago, so we’re just looking at every detail here, you know? We want to make sure that we get it right.”
“Right, right, I know what you mean. I’m watching this and thinking, ‘Well, when I do this there’ll be no ceremony, no speeches’…too many things can go wrong!”
“EXACTLY, you get it. Obviously we need to make sure that the bridesmaids are poised. This one’s been drinking all day, you can just tell, she can barely get her words out. No one wants to hear that.”
I hate weddings. Reluctantly in love, but nevertheless eager to tail my dearest wherever he’ll take me, I’m sitting next to a walk-in closet case and his tightly curled beard at some Protestant country club affair. Listen, the last thing I’m trying to hear is a pile of congratulatory wedding speech aphorisms, but even I know to shut it, or at least revert to signs and whispers, during the speeches. It’s the discordant sound of voices vying with each other to be heard that bothers me more than the fact that they’re stopping me from hearing Daddy’s ode to daughter.
As the speeches wrap, they try to speak to me again. It’s funny how some people, having ceded themselves to a coupled identity, assume that any other loving pair has something inherently in common with them. Too wordy. What I mean to say is: What gives this girl the idea that I want to talk to her about her wedding to her fiance who, I might add, could easily and legally marry a dude in DC? I’m skeptical of his intelligence. I don’t know. Maybe she’s desperate.
It’s self-centered of me, but I always assume that the more a pair worries about presentation, the more they worry about their collective identity, then the less they’re really enjoying each other. He supported my hypothesis, too, when he told me that they wanted to share a room with his family, until they realized the suite was too crowded. Maybe I’m in the minority here, but a larger bill could scarcely come between me and hotel privacy (OK, sex), that precious commodity. All of the new surfaces, the sheets you won’t have to clean later, endless towels, pristine shower, the guarantee of not being caught. If the novelty and the glory of hotel sex has worn off for you, I’m dreadful sorry. And, if you’re willing to take a break from fucking long enough to plan an intricate wedding, then you either have far more self control than I do, or you just aren’t doing it right.