Under the Sea
May 14, 2007
Going along a conversation I had with some friends about weddings about a week ago…. Disney wedding dresses! How scary a thought is that?
Some of the cuts are beautiful, and I’m coveting. But how bizarre would it be to think, “I want to be a princess for my wedding day… I know, I’ll be Ariel!” How far would you push it? Seashell-shaped invites? Underwater decor? A seaweed cake with algae icing?
The last one is actually from a wonderful series of stores my mother and I told each other when I was little, about The Little Whale. The Little Whale was always anxious to see the world, so he would go to The Wishing Octopus and suffer all manner of unspeakable tortures until he was granted one wish– to go on land and be a boy. He’d swim to the beach and turn into a little boy with whales on his swimming trunks (how very New England!) and have adventures until, finally, he would grow homesick and return to the ocean, where his mother would be waiting for him with his favourite treat– seaweed cake with algae icing.
But I digress.
So, this whole wedding mania scares the bejeezus out of me. There’s a NYT article on a woman who studies the phenomenon (via Feministing) and shows us the reality of a bridal expo. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars are being siphoned away at every turn. Maybe it’s just the fact that suddenly tons of people I know are getting engaged or hitched left, right and centre, or maybe it’s the fact that my dad chose to have an awkward, but understandable conversation with me asking that, when the time comes, I not insist on 500 guests, and a dress spun of spider silk and beaded with black Tahitian pearls and canary diamonds (actually, this imaginary expensive dress sounds hideous, so there’s no real risk of that anyway), but I’m suddenly finding this coming up in way more conversations than it should be. (Boyfriend: if you’re reading this, stop hyperventilating. My dad watched a TV show, realised he had a daughter and freaked out, imagining himself bankrupted by my demands for custom table linens for my Big Day. Stitched by lesbian redheaded one-legged nuns in an obscure Andorran nunnery, of course. Nothing but the best and most unique for his little girl.) And the media pressure’s on. Suddenly the sheer possibility of making obscene little demands becomes a possibility, or even a necessity. What used to be an actual celebration of love now seems like a high-stress event the bride won’t even be able to remember, because she’ll be so focused on perfection. Bah.
In other news, apparently the divorce rate’s down. But only if you’re well-off and educated. And it might just be because you’re not getting married in the first place.