Weddings are unique things.
And not just because they're (supposed to be) once-in-a-lifetime experiences or because they're an opportunity for family and friends to gather together in fancy clothes and eat free food, though these things certainly contribute. Nor because the people for which they are ostensibly a celebration spend a good deal of time, money, effort, stress, blood, sweat, and tears on them when common platitude has it that this is "their day." Nor because it is a ceremony ratified by (often) church and state, agreed upon across cultural boundaries as a necessary social institution, an opportunity to eliminate surnames (or, today, create newer, longer, more confusing ones), a methodology of determining (theoretically) paternity, and the chance to attain sanctioned tax breaks for no apparent reason.
No. Weddings are unique because around them has developed a culture of purity and "romance," little birds and hearts and bells and ruffles and bows and lace and... You get the idea. Because everything seems geared toward the mental fixations of a prepubescent girl. Pink. Bows. Frills. Pretty dresses. Pillows. Shiny jewelry. Flowers. Girly things.
The groom is meant - and often expected - to stand there and just let all the "femininity" explode into a flurry of petals and birds and hearts and just take it.
No wonder men hate weddings.
And the worst part is, even if the couple themselves is not so inclined, their families (99% of the time) are. The mother of the bride has fits and paroxysms of alternating joy and psychosis. The bride makes irrational demands in a shrill tone about which she will change her mind equally shrilly in less than two hours. The bridesmaids will either endure this sullenly or squee like little girls themselves. The groomsmen will attempt to get everyone (including themselves) very drunk. And who can blame them?
The wedding has become the domain of that most horrifying of creatures, the "bridezilla." A slavering, three-headed monster that spits acid and swallows pride and testicles for breakfast. A curious beastie that may be assuaged by chocolate and falls into a swoon at an appropriately ridiculous amount of lace and toole. It's hunger for petticoats and sparkling beads goes unsatieted, endless amounts of accouterments and accessories sacrificed to its bottomless stomach.
And this creature is meant to represent the desirable female? No wonder men are becoming increasingly commitment-shy.
And yet, social expectations and our own in-bred desires perpetuate this tradition because of what it stands for, not because of what it is. And what it stands for - the union of two people willing to share their lives and struggles, their joys and sorrows - is a wonderful thing.
But do I really have to look like a Bavarian fruitcake in order to do so?