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18/04/2016

My Wedding Was a Disaster, and Yours Will Be, Too

It’s my wedding day, and I look hideous. The one thing I was the most worried about — paying top dollar for a decent hairstylist, only to emerge with Bad Bride Hair — has come to pass. My head is a gargantuan, Medusa-like mess of terrible, tacky curls. The white flowers placed here and there look like innocent birds that got stuck in a deadly bramble and were left to die. I look as effortless and natural as a “prom”-themed Barbie doll circa 1985.

photos:marieprom

I did everything in my power to prevent this. I enlisted four close friends to come to the salon with me on the morning of my wedding, to watch over the proceedings, observe, and prevent a disaster from occurring. I knew I would be too stressed out to speak up without sounding like a bridezilla. I was counting on them. But my hair took a long time, and my friends were hungry. They ran downstairs to fetch lunch, but the lunch place wasn’t open, so they walked down the block. They have been gone for 20 minutes. WHERE ARE YOU? I text them, and then ask the stylist, in an almost-whisper, “Can you maybe make it a little less … big?”

“Like this?” the stylist says, and starts brushing out some of the ringlets. Now I look like a Barbra Streisand–themed Barbie circa 1978.

This is when the tears start to flow. My very expensive makeup job is running down my face, and the one person who stayed behind, the boyfriend of my close friend who’s been taking photos of me getting my hair done, continues snapping photos as tears run down my face. I am paralyzed by frustration and sadness and pure, white-hot rage. This was supposed to be the most magical day of my life. Now everything is ruined.

Your wedding day will get ruined, too.

Your wedding day will get ruined, that is, if you expect everything to be perfect. Because weddings are never, ever perfect. It’s a testament to the inherent masochism of the human race that people even associate perfection with weddings. Because weddings are (generally speaking) stupidly expensive events that require the cooperation of not just brides and grooms and an army of service professionals, but also the cooperation of close friends and family. Family! Not just one family — two families, two completely different, possibly emotionally unstable families! You not only need your lifelong-partner-to-be to play nice, but you also need pliancy from your closest friends and your old college roommate and some caterer you hardly know and a hairstylist you met a few months ago and your crazy aunt with the tendency to ask prying questions and your partner’s cousin, the one with the drinking problem. You need all of these completely unpredictable people to behave in predictable ways. How and why would you ever expect such a thing? How deluded are you, anyway?

Even when you think you know people well enough to predict how they’re going to behave, you’re wrong! Because people get crazy around weddings. My mother, who tries her damnedest to never ever rock the boat socially, least of all in front of 100 people, stood up at my wedding to give a toast and blurted out that she and the rest of my family had just been to my brother’s wedding the previous weekend, so — and I quote — “We’re all a little bit tired of weddings, honestly.” My mother denies that she ever said this. Luckily, there were 100 witnesses present.

Six of those witnesses — my fiancé’s siblings — remind me of this toast every other time I see them. They were appalled by my mother’s words, and concerned over what those words foretold of their brother’s fate. Luckily, I didn’t notice their horrified faces at my wedding. But I had already been disappointed and embarrassed too many times in the previous 48 hours to notice. The horrors had begun within a few minutes of arriving at the hotel in Palm Desert, in fact, where I greeted my future sister-in-law relaxing by the pool, only to discover, vis-à-vis her nervous glances at my stomach, that my fiancé hadn’t told her I was pregnant yet. I’d gone off the pill right after we got engaged, figuring it would take months for a 35-year-old to get knocked up (if it ever happened at all). Instead, I got pregnant immediately. Now there I was, three months pregnant and extremely anxious, informing my husband’s entire family, one by one, that they had just flown in for a shotgun wedding. When I confronted my husband-to-be about it, he replied, “Oh, I guess it just slipped my mind.” Please note, this is as clear an omen of how it feels to link your fate to a man’s as has ever existed. Luckily, though, I didn’t know that yet.

Read more:http://www.marieprom.co.uk

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