The number one lesson I’ve learned from planning my wedding is: This is not my wedding.
Sure, I get to wear the ivory gown and the invitations have my name on it, but the wedding is only a fraction about me and what I want.
I’m not even sure how the Bridezilla creature was invented; whatever bride actually forced the wedding party to bend to her own personal will must surely only exist in the fantasies of frustrated brides everywhere.
It’s common to read (and receive, from well-intentioned or simply thoughtless friends) articles on why and how weddings should be limited in both expense and size.
Every few months, it seems, newspapers regurgitate the topic with a selection of new words and ingenious ideas for cutting costs.
But I don’t see the average cost of weddings — not to mention Jewish weddings, outsized only by Indian fares — getting glower, in spite of the plethora of brilliant suggestions published by every news-source ever. As a bride, I get it.
I spent half of my wedding-planning months scheming how my fiancé and I could elope. Not only would it be easier, we argued, but it would be so much cheaper. A quick trip to Atlantic City, a cute hotel on a beach, no fuss. When we presented the idea to our parents, half (but only half) jokingly, they played along. Continue reading
Image: Oh it’s a baby
This is the ninth article in a series “Feminist, Orthodox and Engaged,” by Simpi Lampert.
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