Holy Shit, Matrimony!
How does over a month pass by without me updating this thing? It's like my blog defies time and space. Add updating this to the rather long list of resolutions. Right next to sleeping more. Well, here's a little something I wrote . . .
“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”
“Ah, I’d say no,” I said.
“Really?” my boyfriend said, sounding shocked.
“Well, honey, if you propose to me on IM, I’m going to have to say no. I think I need a grander gesture.”
And that was the end of that discussion, at least for a while.
Now, I like the idea of being married. Spending the rest of my life with that special someone who not only loves you, but tolerates you when you have your batshit crazy moments, (not that I have any of those), now that’s appealing. Having some cute little kiddles that can blame you for their shortcomings (and I don’t just mean height), bring it on (although by the time I and my uterus are ready I’ll probably have to adopt.) No, I think my issue might lie with the wedding itself.
You see, most little girls have dreams of their little wedding. And in this little wedding, (which or course, is where you marry Ken before moving into your mansion), there may be lots of precious little details, like little flower petals everywhere, and little shrimps as an appetizer and little presents for you and your betrothed filled with money. But what do these dreams never contain? A budget. Or finding a venue that’s close to the airport but not skeezy. Or your Aunt Bertha.
And that’s the thing; maybe I’m too much of a realist. Or maybe this apprehension dates far back in my psyche. My first wedding memory? When I was five. I was a flower girl (and a rather kickass one, if I may say so myself), at my cousin’s wedding. And it was great. I liked dressing up. I liked walking down the aisle all by myself, having people tell me I was cute as I got to throw things at them. But then later at the reception, I tried a whole bunch of pastel-colored candies. And they turned out to be nuts, which I’m kind of deathly allergic to. But I didn’t know that at the time. So maybe, for a long time I associated weddings with near-death experiences.
And then, when I was thirteen, I had every little Jewish girl’s coming-of-age ritual, the bat mitzvah. If you think about it, it’s kind of like a wedding for one. Or a wedding to god and the Jewish community, if you want to be creepy. And I had dreams of a DJ and dancers, and a night soiree where we would party into the wee hours with our virgin daiquiris and frilly party socks while playing Coke v. Pepsi. I ended up with a sensible luncheon, with a color scheme of pink and green (I hate pink) and an orchestra. How did that happen?
But really, I think my trauma may have been finalized when I was sixteen. I went to the doctor and asked when I was going to get my growth spurt. After all, he said I was going to be 5”4. And when he told me that I had already had my growth spurt (um, I’m still waiting), I joked that my mom should have married someone with taller genes. And she’s like, “I did.” And I’m like “what?” And she just smiled at me. And that was the end of our conversation. Later that night I found out that my mom actually had been married before. But they got divorced after nine months because it turned out her first hubby was gay. I think it was actually the only time in my entire life that I’ve been speechless.
After making sure my father is still indeed Saul (check), I of course wanted to see the wedding photo album. Well, not so possible, she said, because my grandmother had been very upset by the whole event and took it out on the photo album. Apparently all the pictures in it now showed my mother standing either by herself, or next to a headless gentleman. I mean, sure he ended up gay, but he was also a doctor. Was it really so bad? This also explained why my parents’ wedding was a simple affair in my grandparent’s backyard and why my mother wore blue. (When I asked her about it before I knew this story, she was like “why does a girl have to wear white? Blue goes so well with my eyes.”)
Then again, my parents got married on July 4, 1976. Their wedding invitations were made to look like a Declaration of Independence, signed by the parents, so maybe I just shouldn’t look to my family for wedding inspiration.
And now that I’m a semi grown-up, I’m seeing weddings from a whole different perspective—as the bridesmaid, over and over again. I’ve tried repeatedly to be the flower girl but that job always seems to be mysteriously filled by someone smaller and cuter. While I’m honored to be in people’s weddings, there’s nothing I like better then a closet full of dresses that differ only slightly in color and design that I’ll never wear again. And why do they always have to be ordered in a size 18? Is it so I can feel extra good about myself? Or because the bridesmaid designers and tailors of America are in cahoots? I once asked one of my friends whose wedding party I was in, if instead of buying a dress, could I just dye one of the ones I already had to her color scheme. She looked like she was going to cut me.
Then again, there are some reasons I really like the idea of having a wedding. I have found a guy I could be happy with for the rest of my life. And I’m thinking if I wait long enough, I can collect enough bridesmaid dresses that I can make the bridesmaids in my wedding wear the dresses that I had to wear for theirs. Thus, I’d be recycling, and I do like to give back to the earth. Additionally, I love spanakopita, you know, those little Greek spinach pies? And they are a perfect party wedding food. So I could serve that to my heart’s content and I could finally have that DJ that I never had for my bat mitzvah.
I also know that there are two things that I will insist on having at my wedding: an open bar and fireworks. But you know what? I could totally find those in Mexico any day of the week. So maybe I’ll elope. And then you guys can all meet me for an after party in Tijuana. And maybe I’ll wear a blue dress, just like my mom, cause I like to have traditions. I’ll just hope my husband doesn’t end up gay. So the next time my boyfriend proposes, maybe we’ll move up on the classy scale by asking in a text message, maybe I’ll just suggest a vacation instead.