smothered hope

My boyfriend, the darling man, has managed to ruin my day, and it's not even lunchtime yet. It has to do with a wedding - no, not ours. We have no intention of getting hitched anytime soon, if ever. And with good reason! Some friends ours will be tying the knot this weekend, and the stress incurred for us guests has me grateful I'm not on the organizing end of the stick. I'm freaking out because I haven't any proper wedding attire, nor enough cash to blow on such luxuries, which has led me to examine the financial suicide which is a wedding.

First of all, you're throwing a humongous party where you'll have to pay for dinner (and possibly drinks) for all invited, hire a band or DJ, buy a dress you'll never wear again, and rent a tux (which you possibly will have need for in the future). Then there are flowers, a magistrate or holy person to perform the rites, a location and/or reception hall, a cake, hair/makeup appointments, invitation printing, and all the stress and time involved in guest lists, seating arrangements, addressing enveloppes, picking bridesmaids/groomsmens attire, and the inevitable clashes with family members about Just How It Ought To Be Done.

On the guests' end, there are registries to troll (for overpriced, ugly gifts you wouldn't have picked out yourself, but, hey! they chose that china pattern, right?), outfits to select, hair appointments, shoes to shine, drivers to assign, and RSVPs to send ASAP. Not to mention the hubbub before the main event, for which there were bridal shower gifts to buy, strippers to hire, designated drivers to keep entertained, and a significant other to whom you must explain believably just how that exotic dancer's thong found its way into your pocket.

In summary: two people in love throw a party they can't afford in order to tell everyone they know that they are in love and hopefully score some ace housewares they would have probably been able to buy for themselves, had they not thrown said party, all the while making their friends and loved ones run around like beheaded poultry in an effort to prove they care about the happy couple as much as they already did. Oh, and everyone goes into the hole in the meantime. Priorities are, to put it lightly, majorly fucked when it's wedding-time.

Now, enlightenment aside, I still have to find a dress for this damned wedding. Steve (the afore-mentioned thoughtful and practical boyfriend) has gone and purchased a new suit for himself. He's been dying for a spring suit since last year, and now he's found the perfect excuse. While Steve would like to deny that he inherited the clothes-horse gene his mother and sister share, our knit-sweater-wrinkle-free-pants-polo-shirt-for-each-day-of-the-week-dominated wardrobe says otherwise. I own three fancy dresses, two of which have become far too snug since the advent of the Evil Desk Job at which I spent three years ass-farming. The third is a vintage Art Deco cocktail gown bequeathed to me by my mother, which is both far too delicate and far too transparent for the event in question. So I am left with no choice but to puchase new attire. This is the part where I heave a heavy sigh and bust out the comfort food (also known as "pity-party hors d'ouevres").

I haven't been as keen on going to the gym as I thought I'd be, which means that my little desk-job tummy and large desk-job butt are still quite present. I've always been pear-shaped, meaning dress-shopping has always been hell for me; the agravation is turned up a notch when there is a full four-size difference south of the equator. Dig? nobody sells dresses in a 4/10, just like shoes don't come in quarter-sizes. My wonderful, thoughtful, sharp-dressed boyfriend has suggested I shop with his sister for the clothing item in question. For reference, take a look at the last post I made to this journal. Still having trouble? Imagine how sexy a donkey would feel standing next to an Arabian thoroughbred. An Arabian thoroughbred with a stable full of Gucci saddles. I'm supposed to trust someone whose pelvic bone makes an audible knocking sound when she sits to tell me what will make me look well-proportioned. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I'm girl-shaped, but let's face it: fancy clothes are not designed for girl-shaped girls. The are designed for waif-bots, like my (common-law)sister-in-law. Empire waistlines make her look earthy and delicate; they make me look like I'm three months' expectant.

Much like the bride, I'm probably going to wind up paying for a dress that's not only far too fancy to be worn anywhere, ever again, but makes me look like some kind of pastry: puffy and unhealthy. If I'm going to look like a dessert, I'd rather be the sweet, decadent, rich type, thanks.

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08