Sometimes I read the New York Times wedding listings. I don’t know why. I’ve never been the type of girl to fantasize about white dresses and oversized cakes. If you must know, I’ve always rather abhorred that type of girl. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married, let alone what it will look like. And, anyway, I’ve always concerned myself first with who than what. That’s the point, isn’t it?
What kills me about these wedding write ups (the ones Gawker’s Phyllis Nefler deliciously tears down each week) is the emphasis. They feel so outdated. I learn more about the parents than the actual couple. It all feels so archaic and old fashioned. Sure, years ago two upper-crust assholes debuted their freshly pubertized bodies, got set up on a few blue blood dates and settled down at the ripe age of 18. The bride had barely cleaned up her adolescent acne, nevermind accomplished anything. And let’s not forget: there was nothing of real value for her to accomplish. So instead, we wanted to know about parents. We wanted to know where this shiny new couple came from.
But now? I don’t care that her daddy is a managing partner at a law firm and his mama is on the board of a charity. The couples are usually in their late twenties and thirties. The women have multiple degrees and powerful careers! The men do, too! Yet week after week we are treated to more details about the couple’s parents than we are the real guts of their romance.
I want to know if they’re the sort of couple that reads in bed quietly together, or goes out drinking too often, or got pregnant, or had an arranged marriage. I want to know if they laugh. I want to know if—and you know the type—they got together and promptly abandoned their single friends. Or their first date. Or if people think they’re cute or if they’re confused for brother and sister because they look so similar or if they have an open relationships or if they considered a threesome but chickened out.
But I’m not the type to think about those things, anyway. I just like picking out the ugly brides.