The Cynical Bride

When it comes to weddings, I admit it. I can be snarky. Cynical. Easily nauseated. It's easy to dismiss the pseudo-drama of it all. Call it feminism, call it snobbish, but so often the giddiness over bridal magazines and china patterns makes me queasy. I'm not talking about all weddings, but just those that give the bride that crazy glint in her eye when discussing centerpieces. As someone who's saving and longing for my return to grad school, I want to cry when I realize that with the time and money some women devote to wedding planning, they could have a Masters in their chosen field.

So even though I've been with a great guy for many years, I assumed marriage wasn't for me. I'd be the Goldie to his Kurt. Not just the wedding rituals scared me, but also the expectations of the institution: the submissiveness, the passivity, the evenings spent in front of Wheel of Fortune. I'd hear women never referring to their husbands by name but by "hubby," or financially successful women exclaiming, "Oh, he'd KILL me if I bought those shoes!" I wanted to spend my life with him, but geez, I didn't want that. So we did what people like us do: we moved in together.

But a funny thing happened on the way to shackin' up. Having him as a roommate made me want him as a husband. We make a great, if not odd, team. We share the chores, write little notes, and have a weird penchant for National Geographic documentaries on architectural catastrophes. We talk to our dogs more than sane people ought, and he laughs when I express everyday emotions through song or dance (my theory is that people in musicals are always so gosh darn happy; maybe the rest of us are missing out). But it wasn't the happy or silly moments that convinced me he'd make an amazing husband. It was the bad times that really showed me what a great man he is. He listens and assuages when I stress about things that haven't happened yet (my specialty); he's seen me delve into despair and stuck around to see me out of it. When we argue, we fight fair or apologize quickly. He's a man -- and it's a life -- that I want forever. When I realized that I wanted to marry him, the idea was no less radical than had I invented the institution itself. I'd like to say that the discovery was full of hearts and flowers, but for every utterance of love was a, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"

And holy crap, we are... in just three weeks. But I still don't "oooh" over invitations (they're just paper, c'mon), I still read that the average wedding costs nearly $30k and cry a little. Bridal magazines only make me want to elope with their million synonyms for fiance: darling, honey dear, shnookie pie. Please.

So in the words of ol' Frank, we'll do it, but we'll do it our way. My gown has no pouf, the guest list only has 14 names, "hubby" will never pass through my lips. It won't be about veils or cakes or "the perfect day." It'll be about celebrating what we've already built, honoring what formed long ago. It'll be a vow of forever, with a whispered, "Holy crap, are we really doing this?"