A Big Fat Wedding Post January 28, 2008

There will be no more references to the post below. Part of me feels like I made a mistake even putting it on the blog. But another part of me is all it’s my blog, I can post whatever the hell I want, I can abstain from posting whatever the hell I want, I don’t owe anybody anything.

I especially don’t owe a damn thing to someone who wrote nasty things about me and that includes a link to her blog.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t deserve the traffic.

So, um, moving on.

I drove out to New Jersey on Saturday to be a productive bride.

Tangent: M should really take away my keys to his car. While in the parking lot at Starbucks, I accidentally hit a barrier and now M’s front license plate is mangled. While backing out of a parking spot at the bridal salon, I hit the pole of a stop sign. I apparently have reverted back to driving like I did when I was seventeen and would try and make secret deals with the town mechanic to fix my car and not tell my dad.

Anyway, the bridesmaids dresses have been chosen. At one point, there were fifteen of us in a dressing room, debating the merits of a champagne sash versus a sand sash to go with a chocolate brown dress and everyone was kind of looking at me to make a decision and if I haven’t told you already, decisions are not my strong point.

So I did what any responsible, mature bride would do: I kicked everyone except for my mother out of the room and I started to tear up.

My mother, being my mother, rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of “Clinky, just pick a damn color.”

And I did. Chocolate brown dress with a champagne sash it is. (The reverse of what is in this photo, though my sister will be wearing this exact combination since she’s the maid of honor.)

I also had a consultation with my florist, during which a very bizarre exchange occurred.

I was speaking with the assistant at the shop, giving her the relevant information (date of the wedding, how many people in the bridal party, etc). She told me about her own wedding, which was a small backyard affair.

“Sometimes I think that’s the way to go,” I admitted.

“Yeah, well, with your last name you can’t really do that. I mean, the wedding is kind of a glamorous business meeting for your dad, you know? A chance for him to show off.”

I was pretty taken aback. One of my bridesmaids was with me and she piped up. “Actually, I don’t think that’s it at all, thanks.”

I wanted to tell Little Miss Florist Shop Assistant that, while my parents are paying for some of the wedding, M and I are taking on a lot of the expenses on our own (including the fucking flowers). That she clearly doesn’t know my father if that’s what she thinks of him. That she really shouldn’t judge people that she only thinks she knows (cough, cough, COUGH).

Ahem.

As Molly, Peter and M have all said - people are going to judge no matter what. Their perceptions may be off, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to let it roll off my back; paying attention to it just feeds the beast.

It’s a good life lesson for me, actually. I can’t spend my life fighting back against the snarky bloggers and Florist Assistants of the world. They don’t matter. However, being who I am - no matter what - does.