On Attending a Wedding

I have been invited to a wedding.  That means dragging out the formal dress and giving thanks it still fits; digging out the evening shoes and the useless evening bag, which can’t hold all the necessary items.  And packing the minimum amount of basic necessities for an overnight stay.  And hoping the traffic doesn’t delay my arrival or that any of the other dozens of things-that-can-go-wrong go wrong.

So far, so good.  The logistics go well and I arrive in time.  Now I must deal with the event.  The rabbi is excruciatingly “PC” and blathers on about what the bride and groom like, admire and treasure about each other.  This could have been omitted.  We know they have positive feelings for each other; they’re getting married, for cryin’ out loud.  And we could have been spared the successive prayers for empathy, openness, compassion, love and whatever else their getting married is supposed to improve in the world.  They’re one among millions of couples getting married; their union is not going to have that much of an effect.  Besides, we’ve been sitting patiently long enough; let’s eat.  (This is, after all, a mostly Jewish wedding.)

But even when we’re released from the lofty sentiments and allowed to party, we face a preliminary heat: the cocktail reception.  In a crowded room with insufficient tables, waiters and waitresses pass around hors d’oeuvre trays just out of my reach.  The noise of chatter mingled with piano music presses on my ears, jangles in my skull.  I escape down the hall, somewhere, anywhere where sounds are muted and I can recover a semblance of psychic balance.  When the stress ebbs, I return to make inconsequential conversation, hard enough over the background noise, harder still to grope for worthwhile things to say to people I barely know.

Finally, we are permitted to enter the ballroom for the sit-down dinner.  More loud music, to make conversation even more of an effort.  Music composed after 1956 is not meant for people in floor-length formal gowns to dance to, nor is it meant as background music.  Nor is it meant for women in high heels (if men want to wear high heels, they can bloody well dance in them if they think it’s so exciting).  I take off my shoes in order to dance and take heart from the admiring glances of other women in evening shoes.  I’m further validated by the sight of still other women who’ve taken their own shoes off.  So I manage to do what has to be done: eat, drink, congratulate, dance – and leave as soon as acceptable after the dessert.

I think people should elope.  It spares many of us a great deal.