The single most important day EVER in the entire history of HUMANITY!
This is what they tell you, pretty much in those exact words (and without even a hint of post-feminist irony) in virtually every bridal magazine. "The most important day of your life!!!" Even if you later win the Pulitzer prize, or find a cure for cancer, or go on Survivor XXVI and become known as "the skanky one."
Nothing you will ever do or accomplish in this lifetime will matter even 1/10 as much as the day you get married. That is, if you're the bride. Our male counterparts seem to be excluded from the idea that their wedding is the absolute pinnacle of their existance. For guys, it's assumed that the whole thing will be much less of a defining moment than, say, when their favorite college hockey team wins the local division finals, or Geico comes out with a new commercial featuring talking armadillos.
To wit, there are about 10,000 magazines devoted to brides, yet only about 0 for the groom. If it were up to straight men, weddings (if they existed at all) would involve a lot of beer, maybe some bacon-wrapped bacon balls, and the ceremonial Playing of Video Games. And more beer.
Not to perpetuate any sterotypes. Of course, over the past year, I've seen myself unexpectedly danced around the borderlands of Bad Bridal Stereotypes, myself. For instance, I never, ever thought I'd be the kind of woman who buys bridal magazines, or cares about things like centerpieces. In fact, I've always found the whole concept of table centerpieces to be, quite frankly, Part of the Problem. Until yesterday. When I saw the invoice from the florist and noticed that the little plots of wheatgrass for the center of the wedding tables were listed as 6 inches and not the agreed-upon 12 ... well, I went a bit Bridezilla.
How could this ... ?!! What the - ?! Don't they know that a small, cubic arrangement will be obscured by the size and shape of the plate chargers, and of course the colors of the napkins won't be picked up by the mauve hues in the ...
It was my voice, but another language - like one of those mystics who falls into a trance and begins speaking some forgotten ancestral language. It was strange and horrifying. Maybe it really is my destiny to become one more in a long line of women who instinctively know how to make "decoupage"? Whatever that is. The kind of woman who only serves vegetables that will pick up the colors of the tablecloth? Who would apologize profusely if the sugar bowl did not match the creamer?
At that point, it occured to me that it was absolutely unconsionable to be thinking about my stupid floral centerpieces in a world where there is so much poverty and despair. I stopped and really thought about this for at least several nanoseconds. Fortunately, the florist is programmed into the speed dial.
Nothing you will ever do or accomplish in this lifetime will matter even 1/10 as much as the day you get married. That is, if you're the bride. Our male counterparts seem to be excluded from the idea that their wedding is the absolute pinnacle of their existance. For guys, it's assumed that the whole thing will be much less of a defining moment than, say, when their favorite college hockey team wins the local division finals, or Geico comes out with a new commercial featuring talking armadillos.
To wit, there are about 10,000 magazines devoted to brides, yet only about 0 for the groom. If it were up to straight men, weddings (if they existed at all) would involve a lot of beer, maybe some bacon-wrapped bacon balls, and the ceremonial Playing of Video Games. And more beer.
Not to perpetuate any sterotypes. Of course, over the past year, I've seen myself unexpectedly danced around the borderlands of Bad Bridal Stereotypes, myself. For instance, I never, ever thought I'd be the kind of woman who buys bridal magazines, or cares about things like centerpieces. In fact, I've always found the whole concept of table centerpieces to be, quite frankly, Part of the Problem. Until yesterday. When I saw the invoice from the florist and noticed that the little plots of wheatgrass for the center of the wedding tables were listed as 6 inches and not the agreed-upon 12 ... well, I went a bit Bridezilla.
How could this ... ?!! What the - ?! Don't they know that a small, cubic arrangement will be obscured by the size and shape of the plate chargers, and of course the colors of the napkins won't be picked up by the mauve hues in the ...
It was my voice, but another language - like one of those mystics who falls into a trance and begins speaking some forgotten ancestral language. It was strange and horrifying. Maybe it really is my destiny to become one more in a long line of women who instinctively know how to make "decoupage"? Whatever that is. The kind of woman who only serves vegetables that will pick up the colors of the tablecloth? Who would apologize profusely if the sugar bowl did not match the creamer?
At that point, it occured to me that it was absolutely unconsionable to be thinking about my stupid floral centerpieces in a world where there is so much poverty and despair. I stopped and really thought about this for at least several nanoseconds. Fortunately, the florist is programmed into the speed dial.
posted by Marguerite at 11:59 AM
2 Comments:
The same thing happens when you have kids. You turn into this person that you always thought was insane. You say the weirdest things. One time the words, "Darby take your brother's underwear off your head," actually escaped my mouth. I was dumbfounded.
Yeah, having kids takes it to a whole other level. I can't even wrap my head around the concept just yet. Although we all tell ourselves it won't happen, I'm sure the time will come when I think it's perfectly rational to have an in-depth, irony-free conversation about the merits of something called a "Diaper Genie." My personal Parenting Hero is my dear friend April (www.shouldhavebeenaprincess.blogspot.com), who isn't afraid to tell her 5-year-old son to "sit down and watch Sponge Bob until I tell you to stop!"
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