Dear Wedding, They warned me about you. Reality TV and the almighty RomCom showed me how you could take a sweet girl in love and coax her into a raging bridezilla. A cascade of websites and about 314 blogs constructed just to worship you whispered a siren call into a maze of internet links I knew spelled tragedy for productive fiancés across the worldwide. Newly married friends and their smug grins told me you’d be a lot of work – they’re now what I call “The Survivors.”
But I wasn’t scared of you. I called you on, even. I recall, just 3 hours after having said yes (actually, it was “Si! Yes! Oh yes! Seriously? *tears tears tears* Ohhhhhhh *tears snot tears*”) shouting “Come on Wedding! Let’s fucking DO this!” After all, how tough could planning a big party be?
Now, I’m not sure if my confidence provoked some sort of nuptial beast (I picture Martha Stewart in a mother-of-the-groom dress tossing rose petals into the eyes of non-believers) but you got me. You got me good, Wedding. Like most people who spiral out of control, the first slips are undetectable. Wedding magazine binges are normal – encouraged even. Replacing all of my Google bookmarks with wedding blogs seemed like a good idea (I don’t need to read The Globe and Mail now that I’m planning a wedding, right?). Even as I threw a fit in the middle of a restaurant over the idea of having a wedding in Woodbridge, I still didn’t realize your awesome power. No, in my eyes I was still in the blissful throes of forever-love. And then my moment of truth happened. I told my best friend that she must put her baby-making plans on hold because if she missed my big day to give birth to some kid, I’d never forgive her. I AM DICTATING LIFE YET TO BE CREATED! FOR YOU, WEDDING! I see myself now.
I recognize I’m too late. I’m already too lost in layers of white tulle to find the girl who knows you’re “just one day” (I don’t mean that, I’m so sorry, Wedding). And so I’m writing you this letter, Wedding, to concede. You have converted me from a seemingly normal, level-headed woman into a girl consumed by the hunt for the perfect shade of emerald green to suit her Great Gatsby-meets-Boardwalk Empire, modern-vintage, DIY-glam, intimate-ballroom affair for two-hundred and twenty. You win, Wedding. You win. I only hope my admission of defeat will inspire mercy on your part.
“Post Haste” is a monthly series of open letters by Julia Ippolito. By day Julia is a copywriter, by night she explains what that means to her parents.
Adorable cake topper image courtesy of lollipopworkshop. Warning on banner courtesy of me. Seriously, ladies, take heed.