Weddings are stupid.

Unless you’re my little sister and you want one (Rachel, we’ll discuss this later.).

Personally, I’d rather take the money that would have been spent on an excruciatingly frilly, impractical, one-time-wear-only dress, food that looks better than it tastes, thousand dollar flower arrangements that die the next day and a DJ who will inevitably play Gloria Estefan’s version of “Turn the Beat Around,” and take a month-long vacation somewhere fucking awesome. Like Greece. Yeah.

To seal the legality of the affair, the fiancée and I will pull together a jolly quorum – the fam, good friends, and maybe a cute pet or two (I can’t deny my mother the joy of dressing Shayna for the occasion) – and saunter over to Town Hall to sign some papers. When I push through the doors of the building (in a white mini-dress?) I hope to exclaim something along the lines of, “Let’s do this!” The whole thing will take ten minutes. Then everyone will head over to the bar for pitchers. No vino allowed. It’s my wedding and everyone will drink Black and Tans.

Oh, and absolutely no little kids. At all. Not at the ceremony, not at the party. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to leave the criers at home. You popped ‘em out, so now you’re responsible for figuring out what to do with ‘em while the rest of us have a good time.


N.B. I am fully aware of the possibility that in the future, love will dilute my cynicism. But it's highly unlikely.