Wedding Vows=Wedding Woes

For as long as I can remember, I have disliked going to weddings. When I was younger, it was because I wasn’t really a big fan of wearing dresses or even looking the least bit feminine. I was the epitome of a tomboy. No dolls and dresses, just sports. So if wearing a dress wasn’t bad enough, at wedding, I would have to wear a dress in front a room full of a hundred or more strangers watching my every move and giving me the ill permanent side-eye because I didn’t act like a “lady”. Not much has changed since then. Sure, I might’ve grown some tits. And yea, I sort of grew out of my tomboy stage, but I still can’t stand going to weddings. At a wedding, you are forced to be fake and nice to people you would rather not even have to see, simply because you don’t want to disrespect the bride or groom. No is ever satisfied. Not even the newlyweds. They are so damn tired from a night of remembering names and seating charts that they can’t even fully enjoy their first night of post-marital sex.

Even though I really dislike weddings, I always end up getting invited to them. A few weeks ago, after a longass day, I came home hoping to unwind. On my way in, as usual, I had picked up the mail, hoping for a check of some sort. As I was looking through the mail, “Bill, bill, catalog, bill, and hmm... What do we have here? Birthday card? Nah, it can’t be. My birthday is next month. Duh.” So, I open it up to discover it was an invitation to my friend Sara’s wedding. Upon reexamination of the weighty embossed envelope, I saw it right there, in black 12pt Edwardian Script font: And Guest. Fuck! Could things be any worse? It’ll be my first wedding without a boyfriend to bring as a date, and now I have to go and find a suitable guest. Having to endure “The stage of fakeness”, also known as a wedding, was bad as it is, but now I need not just a date, but a proper guest. Just fucking great, something to look forward to, you know, like a pap smear.

This is just a lose:lose situation. The first loss is devoted to the guests: expectation. If you’re invited with a date, people expect you to bring one. The invitation might as well have said, “Black tie and date optional” because finding a date for a wedding is no small task. The second loss belongs to my date: he can’t be all lovey dovey with me, incessantly declaring his love for me to the guests. What he showers on me in private is one thing(Pun intended). What about if he turns out to be more of a lush than myself? Negative. It’ll be more like babysitting than a date. Simply unacceptable.

I need a date that would know his role and be able to help me get through the wedding without me having to curse some bitch out for looking at me the wrong way. He can’t dance all night or not dance at all. He needs to understand my anxieties and help me laugh at them. He also needs to know,a boss bitch like myself, who rarely believes in the constitution of marriage, alcohol combined with vows might make me want to…I dunno…throw myself in front of a oncoming truck. He can’t smell or have small dick syndrome, you know, just in case I get drunk and horny. He needs to understand that even though for the sake of our lovely audience at the wedding, we might say we are boyfriend and girlfriend, but afterwards, this will certainly not be the case.

Okay, maybe I’m asking for too much. But there’s no way in hell that I’ll go dolo to the wedding. The only single men attending without dates will be under 12 yrs old and older than 50. That’s just not going to work. Shaking my damn head at people that feel the need to pay $50+ per person for complete strangers to attend their wedding. Dumbasses. You know they are only attending the wedding for the free food and liquor. And in some cases, they are better off saving that money. What happens if you get a divorce? You can’t get a refund for wedding expenses fools!

I guess I should stop complaining and start looking through my handy dandy black book. I have to find the perfect date. Fucking sucks. A wedding sort of reminds me of Valentines Day. Finding a wedding date is like finding a valentine: if you have to find one, it doesn’t count. And then, watching a bride is like on Valentines Day when everytime you see a dozen of cellophane wrapped roses, you try to peek at the card hoping they are for you.