There, I said it.
I probably blogged about it before. I may have even
used “I Hate Weddings” as the title of a previous post.
And, yes, you guessed it: I have a wedding to attend.
Next Friday. A work colleague of my wife’s. I will know two people – my wife
and another one of her colleagues, who I met once.
I am an introvert. I am the most extroverted of
introverts (i.e., in a room full of introverts, I will be the one talking), but
in a room full of extroverts I will be looking for ways and means of escape.
And weddings are a splendid thing of extroversion. There ain’t nothing calm,
peaceful, thoughtful, reflective about a wedding, particularly the reception
but even the ceremony. A wedding is pure bacchanalia. And even when I went
through my bacchanalian phase back in my twenties, I hated bacchanalia.
Before I go into specifics, though, let’s qualify that
word “hate.” When I write “hate,” I mean “dislike intensely with every fiber of
my being.” But it can be qualified. I’d rather have a cavity filled than go to
a wedding, but not a multi-visit root canal. I’d rather have my prostate
checked than go to a wedding, but not go under full anesthesia for surgery. I’d
rather cut a check for a hundred bucks to the wonderful bride and groom, but
not endure six hours of grueling meet-n-greet mindless chit-chat in an
environment which I have to think is akin to front-row seats at an Aria Grande
concert.
How often am I afflicted with a wedding? I haven’t
kept track, but it’s got to average once a year. In 2014, I had the trials and
tribulations of three: both my sisters-in-law, and a friend’s second go-round.
Neither was what you would call a “McWedding,” but all involved my dread, my
failing, the bane of my existence: meaningless cocktail party banter.
I love nothing more than a good philosophical chat.
What’s your philosophy? Perhaps I can learn from it. I’m a writer, I’m a
hopper, I’m naturally curious. What’s the meaning of life? What do you do that
gives you meaning, that thrills you, that puts you in Csikszentmihalyian flow?
All wonderful and interesting questions, to which, no doubt, you are
verbalizing, “Well, Hopper, why don’t you ask the person you happen to be
seated next to at a reception such ponderables?” The answer is easy, for I have.
He or she will look at me as if I have two heads and three eyes, or assume I am
some weird New Age guru in disguise. That is, if he or she can even hear me
over the DJ.
Aside from the unwanted duty to make small talk with
perfect strangers, what is it about weddings that I hate, specifically? How
about an even dozen off the top of my head:
* Every reception begins with Bach’s “Air on a G String”
and ultimately devolves into some unholy ménage of “Cotton-eyed Joe,” “YMCA”,
and / or “Macarena.” Add to that 2019’s “Baby Shark.”
* Undying love professed and sealed with vows by two
individuals who most likely haven’t cracked the doorway of a church in years.
* An endless eternity between the ceremony and
reception, necessitating the need to engage with strangers, ’cuz sitting over
there under a tree reading a book is considered bad form.
* Bad, bad, bad, bad Best Man speeches, ones that bust
the groom’s cojones, peppered with
oodles of inside jokes, wrapped up with an awkward “I Love You, Man” coda.
* Every pair of the bridal party, announced and strutting
into the reception area, doing “schtick,” some goofy pantomime to the yuks of
the crowd.
* All the young ladies feeling the urge to display
their goods and all the young men feeling the urge to project an image of
wealth and power, both of which urges magnify exponentially based on the number
of alcoholic drinks consumed.
* All that cool vaping going on.
* Spotting the spat – usually, by the running mascara
on the semi-drunken lady, or the group of angrily flailing boiler-room type
dudes huddling out in the open.
* A DJ who also thinks he’s a comedian and that
everyone’s there to hear him blather. Oh, and he also has known the bride and
groom since kindergarten.
* A DJ cranking bad dance music up to 11.
* A DJ cranking bad novelty music up to 11, with the
added bonus of peer pressure to get up there and dance to it.
* And the most unconscionable transgression of all, awful
wedding cake.
Yes, I am married, and, yes, I had a wedding, way way
back in 2001. Did I like my wedding? Honestly, yes and no. Yes, because the
wife knows and understands my personality and carved out of the wedding a good
percentage of what exhausts me. And, no, because, well, it was a wedding (see
above). My favorite part of our reception, truth be told, occurred once the
majority of the guests left. I smoked a relaxing cigarette, my first and only
one that day, in glorious solitude on the deck of the inn facing the darkening woods.
If you love weddings, or if you’re newly married, or
if your child is, please don’t take offense. This is just me with my preferences
talking. I don’t like weddings because I’m not one who enjoys the Social Game.
I’m not built that way. On my death bed I will not wring my hands that I had
not enjoyed more weddings. I can’t just “be sociable” at weddings any more than
I could just “be an expert fly fisher” next time I find myself on a riverbank.
I don’t have the skill, and though if I wanted I could perhaps become skilled
at it, every strand of DNA in every cell of my body would be scratching its
metaphorical head, asking, “Why?”
I also realize these remarks put me in the minority of
the population. Or do they? – just google, “I hate weddings” …
