I hate weddings. The falsely virginal dress dotted with beads and lace. A gaggle of bridesmaids lined up in matching polyester gowns that flatter nary a one. The row of groomsmen bedecked in tacky rented tuxedos enhanced with matching satin vests. I can’t understand spending $10,000 on flowers that’ll be dead in two days or $20,000 on music that will play for three hours. For me, weddings are as appealing as Hello Kitty handbags and platefuls of scrapple. Thanks, but no thanks.
So if this is the case, why the fuck did I cry watching Lauri marry George last night on The Real Housewives of Orange County? The way the flowers adorned with crystals dripped off the trees. The way he longingly looked at her as she glided down the aisle. By the time the show entered into a montage of still shots, I was a full blown blithering mess. Curled under my nappy fleece blanket, my body encased in lycra and damp from my workout, I dabbed at my eyes and beamed happiness at the television.
Maybe my cynical approach to nuptials has finally turned a corner. I’ll admit I had fun at Leslie’s wedding. I was the only bridesmaid so I was told to go to Neiman Marcus and find a black gown. Oh, and I was instructed to take my mother’s credit card so I wouldn’t have to pay for it. This is the polar opposite of twisting my arm. She said ‘I do’ in front of sixty people at Le Bec Fin and then afterwards the group feasted on rack of lamb and seared scallops. The wine flowed generously, the dessert cart was never ending nirvana and in the end, it was a lovely affair.
“You guys ever getting married?” I asked Joe and Barry as I took another sip from my New Year’s Eve cocktail.
Barry shyly cast his eyes down, keeping his wishes to himself while Joe freely spoke.
“Hell to the no. Just ‘cause you breeders need a piece of paper to commit doesn’t mean we do.”
Barry let out a sigh. I continued.
“You two would look so handsome at an altar in tuxedos,” I argued.
“Wait,” Joe interrupted. “You hate weddings!”
“Yes, but I love cake. I’m always up for a heaping slice of cake.”
It’s true. If I could build a house of cupcakes and live the rest of my days tucked within the walls of butter cream frosting, I would. In fact, I’d probably never leave my house. But that’s another post for another time.
At the end of the day, perhaps the weepiness I felt while watching crappy reality television had nothing to do with weddings and everything to do with love. A genuine and unwavering love that I haven’t witnessed in a while. The kind of love I’m holding out for. When it works just as well in silence as it does when words are exchanged. The kind of love that is rarer than a pink diamond and worth more than all of the money in the world. Maybe it’s all about love. And the cake. I’m still holding out for the fucking cake.