“We’re getting married!” my fiancé Vinnie squealed, much like you’d expect from a sorority girl. After four years, I knew what I was getting into. This is the guy who plans to arrive in a Cinderella carriage on his ‘big day’. The guy who (and I’ll deny it if you repeat it) has a binder of wedding inspiration he’s ripped out of magazines. He won’t let me see the binder, but I suspect he’s glued his face onto the grooms’ heads. I just hope that’s the creepiest thing in there and go on with my life, pretending it doesn’t exist.
To be clear, we are a heterosexual couple. Even clearer, I’m the girl, he’s the boy. But things are a bit different in our house. After work, I binge watch Netflix (with snacks, of course) while he chatters on about linens and tablescapes, not so silently judging my wedding diet. I’m not really paying attention because I’m picturing Vinnie in a tutu, Vinnie trying on a glass slipper, basically Vinnie on the happiest day of a girl’s life. It makes me laugh, but that soon turns to tears. My dream wedding would be eloping to a log cabin in the woods, officiated by a guy with three elbows or maybe a stutter. I’ve had a steady outbreak of hives the size of my engagement ring since he proposed.
Oh, I haven’t told you about this sparkler. Here I am walking around New York City, blinded by the glare emanating from my ring finger, left hand dragging behind me from the weight of this giant diamond. I have a nagging hand cramp and a very real fear of carpal tunnel. When riding the subway late at night, I turn the diamond toward the inside of my palm, tuck my hand into my armpit and make it very clear that I am on high alert. The other passengers slowly move away, because they think I’m insane. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful! But I worry that the Kardashian diamond will only accentuate my disheveled personal style.
By now I expect you are feeling confident that I’m Vinnie’s beard. The thought has crossed my mind. But eh oh, oh eh, what can I say? The guy just really loves weddings! He loves going to weddings, he loves dancing at weddings and he will bite, cheat and steal his way to catch that garter, followed by a performance to rival Magic Mike. They should hire this guy out for weddings, he’s that good of a time and by the amount of wedding invites he gets, people know it. I guess with three sisters and a bridal gown seamstress mother, weddings are just his thing.
I thought I could change him. He won’t want a black tie affair. Certainly not the glass elevator that rises up from the dancefloor for our big entrance. We aren’t fancy people! Both our extended families are larger than most small American towns, plus he’d just blown all his money on that rock! No, all that talk was just for laughs. He doesn’t really have thirty seven groomsmen. But I learned you can’t take the princess out of a beefy Italian man. I made a last effort (I begged) for a smaller, intimate party and when I’d pled my case he replied, “You’re not taking this away from me, Kat.” I bowed my head in defeat and accepted my fate. I had fallen in love with Groomzilla.
Bees in a Bonnet 