On the Evils of Bridal Porn.
I made the mistake of buying Bridal Porn thursday night. Ruined the entire effing weekend. Every page of Elegant Bride and InStyle Weddings only served to mock my poverty and inability to afford anything contained therein, and to shout at me the severity of not having Important Details That Express Me, such as colored invitations and a four-digit price-tag dress (in a single digit size) for My Speshul Daaaay tm.
So C. and I are hanging out, and all I can think of is, "Where can I get navy blue paper with an embossed or otherwise raised border with light blue thermography for under $800? " and
"What if the perfectly good invitations I've negotiated with the printer for aren't good enough?" and "What if people look at our invitations and say, "Dear Heavens, a white 5"x5" invitation with navy blue thermography! How perfectly common!" and roll their eyes!"
He suggested cuddling and sex this afternoon before he headed off to work. I declined. Know why? Because we'd watched Whose Wedding is it Anyway, and the couple featured had a $1,700 budget just for flowers, and I was depressed.
I'm turning into the bride that thinks of place settings while her fiance is trying to seduce her.
Here's the really scary part: After rebuffing my fiance, after we went our separate ways, what did I do? I went home and promptly started thumbing through the Elegant Bride magazine again, just to see if there was something I missed.
As if there were any possible information to be gleaned between the pages of "what dresses for what shape" and "unforgettable weddings".
C. approaches wedding magazines and shows in a completely logical manner. "Do them just like you do fashion," he says. "Watch them and go get the cheaper, Target version. Just use them for the ideas."
Meanwhile, I sit on the couch and watch women in Romona Keveza gowns with asscher cut rings , lovely receptions with nary a fried chicken leg or pig-in-a-blanket in sight, with actual real flowers on the tables, watched over by wedding planners who actually plan something. And it doesn't surprise me that the high, keening, pained wail I hear is my own sorrow and shame at being too poor to afford any of it.
I know C is right. He really is. Nobody except me, my parents, and his parents, will keep the invitation -- even if it was on 100% navy cotton paper, printed with light blue thermography and even if the monogram I designed were on the top. Nobody will remember if we had gardenias or delphiniums. Nobody will say, "They should have gone with the 6' columns instead of the 8' ones." No one will fret over the length of the bridesmaids' dresses. No one will care if we don't have a signature drink named The Foofy-Dink. What they will remember is that C. and myself got married, and it was a nice thing.
I wish I could make myself not care about it, too. But I can't. And I know it's a ploy, a conspiracy. I know it's just a shot to make me feel inferior about my wedding so that I'll plop down more money into the Wedding Industry. I know that. But it works, just the same. And even if we had $25,000 to toss on a one-day event, it wouldn't be enough. Because somewhere there is a woman having a weekend bash filled with customized guest favors and fun activities for out-of-town guests and cocktail parties.
Sad, isn't it? That we're made to feel that no matter what, no matter how wonderful the man, no matter how bright the future is for what should be the most important part (the celebration of the beginning of a marriage), it won't be good enough. That all the love and hope in the world isn't enough when compared to towering centerpieces and five-piece bands and hand-lettered placecards.
I should hate the Wedding Industry. I should rail against them and have a DIY wedding and print out my own invitations (they really don't look bad -- a doctor/nurse couple I know did their own and they look great!) and get flowers from piggly wiggly and have my friends wear whatever they want. I should rebel. I should burn every last one of these magazines that I end up hiding away lest C. find them and do it for me.
But understanding the virus doesn't make you immune to it.
Sad, I know.
So C. and I are hanging out, and all I can think of is, "Where can I get navy blue paper with an embossed or otherwise raised border with light blue thermography for under $800? " and
"What if the perfectly good invitations I've negotiated with the printer for aren't good enough?" and "What if people look at our invitations and say, "Dear Heavens, a white 5"x5" invitation with navy blue thermography! How perfectly common!" and roll their eyes!"
He suggested cuddling and sex this afternoon before he headed off to work. I declined. Know why? Because we'd watched Whose Wedding is it Anyway, and the couple featured had a $1,700 budget just for flowers, and I was depressed.
I'm turning into the bride that thinks of place settings while her fiance is trying to seduce her.
Here's the really scary part: After rebuffing my fiance, after we went our separate ways, what did I do? I went home and promptly started thumbing through the Elegant Bride magazine again, just to see if there was something I missed.
As if there were any possible information to be gleaned between the pages of "what dresses for what shape" and "unforgettable weddings".
C. approaches wedding magazines and shows in a completely logical manner. "Do them just like you do fashion," he says. "Watch them and go get the cheaper, Target version. Just use them for the ideas."
Meanwhile, I sit on the couch and watch women in Romona Keveza gowns with asscher cut rings , lovely receptions with nary a fried chicken leg or pig-in-a-blanket in sight, with actual real flowers on the tables, watched over by wedding planners who actually plan something. And it doesn't surprise me that the high, keening, pained wail I hear is my own sorrow and shame at being too poor to afford any of it.
I know C is right. He really is. Nobody except me, my parents, and his parents, will keep the invitation -- even if it was on 100% navy cotton paper, printed with light blue thermography and even if the monogram I designed were on the top. Nobody will remember if we had gardenias or delphiniums. Nobody will say, "They should have gone with the 6' columns instead of the 8' ones." No one will fret over the length of the bridesmaids' dresses. No one will care if we don't have a signature drink named The Foofy-Dink. What they will remember is that C. and myself got married, and it was a nice thing.
I wish I could make myself not care about it, too. But I can't. And I know it's a ploy, a conspiracy. I know it's just a shot to make me feel inferior about my wedding so that I'll plop down more money into the Wedding Industry. I know that. But it works, just the same. And even if we had $25,000 to toss on a one-day event, it wouldn't be enough. Because somewhere there is a woman having a weekend bash filled with customized guest favors and fun activities for out-of-town guests and cocktail parties.
Sad, isn't it? That we're made to feel that no matter what, no matter how wonderful the man, no matter how bright the future is for what should be the most important part (the celebration of the beginning of a marriage), it won't be good enough. That all the love and hope in the world isn't enough when compared to towering centerpieces and five-piece bands and hand-lettered placecards.
I should hate the Wedding Industry. I should rail against them and have a DIY wedding and print out my own invitations (they really don't look bad -- a doctor/nurse couple I know did their own and they look great!) and get flowers from piggly wiggly and have my friends wear whatever they want. I should rebel. I should burn every last one of these magazines that I end up hiding away lest C. find them and do it for me.
But understanding the virus doesn't make you immune to it.
Sad, I know.
posted by Gina at 10:32 PM
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