I’m going to be upfront and start by saying, no, I am not engaged. But my boyfriend recently told me – whilst shoving fistfuls of Craisins into his mouth – that he wants to impregnate me. Safe to say that my fairy tale is imminent, so I better start planning ahead.

 

I’m in my late twenties, which means in the past 7 years I’ve gone to about a hundred weddings and spent so much money on gifts I could have put up a down payment on a nice little condo. But at said hundreds of weddings, I have also witnessed a few wedding cliches that I would like to avoid like Mexican tap water:

 

I understand you want your “Save the Date” card to be so fucking adorable and original that every guest will feel honored to be invited to your gala. But let’s remember that your Save the Date will be thrown away immediately. So don’t waste your money on a 3-day photo shoot and photoshopping the Millennium Falcon in the background. And we already know you’re nerds. We’ll come to your wedding anyways. (Use the money to buy yourself that $600 pasta maker you nonsensically registered for. No one else will.) But we WILL 100% text you the day before your wedding for that venue information.

 

I think this goes for proposals, entrances and receptions. It was cool in 2004, but at this point, it’s really no longer a “surprise” or original. It’s actually really annoying. And no matter how supportive your friends are, no one wants to participate in 5 hours of mandatory dance rehearsal to learn the hand jive. And the ones that do? They’re just trying to steal your thunder. Leave them in a gross coral bridesmaid’s dress and just relish the attention you’ll get regardless of your showmanship.

 

So maybe no one says this verbatim in their vows, but I’ve heard many a-couple say this. Usually of the child-bride variety. You may think this is very Romeo-and-Juliet-romantic, but I think most psychologists would agree that it’s more like a serious codependency issue that should be addressed toute-suite. Let us remember from freshman english that Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy. Some friendly neighborhood priest sold a couple of kids poison in the name of a love-suicide pact, and that’s what we should all aspire to? I don’t think so. I think a weird tattoo, or a simple “love ya, boo” would suffice as far as proclamations of love go.

 

Perhaps on EVERY wedding program ever. It goes without saying you have to be friends with your spouse otherwise you wouldn’t want to binge on “House of Cards” in-between scheduled sex nights. Plus, your sig-other is the one you’re allowed to tell the secrets that you were sworn to secrecy not to tell. This, by default, makes them your bestie/Road Dog. Although if I were really marrying my best friend, it would be a lesbian wedding and my mother would have won that bet she had with my father. 

 

To show off your rings, of course! Ugh, I get it! You’re hitched. This is what binds us, blah blah blah. Who honestly wants a picture of their hands? I have my father’s large knuckles and a big wood-carving-accident scar on my left paw. I do not need these facts further immortalized. Please don’t tell me you’ve actually hang that up in your home, either. You look at your own hands a thousand times a day, I don’t understand why you need a photo of them hanging in your foyer to remind yourself what your ring looks like. And if it’s hung up next to your “Save the Date” card, then just don’t ever invite me over. It’s the best for everyone.

 

I know you’re excited to walk into your awesome reception. (For the record, if it’s not open bar, it’s not awesome. Ditto for post-dinner drunk snackies). But you didn’t just win the Super Bowl. You won an eternity of picking up someone’s boxer briefs with questionable stains on them. Just walk in like you have a shred of dignity. 

 

I just think it’s awkward to sit and watch normal people (i.e., not cast members of “Dancing With the Stars”) sway side to side for 4 minutes and act like it’s the most touching thing you’ve ever witnessed. And if you’re doing it to that Hawaiian ukulele version of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” you officially have the most generic, boring 4 minutes of your guests’ lives. No one even likes the ukulele, unless you live in Williamsburg and own one. And then no one likes you, anyways.

 

I would say any “group dance” kind of song is a big N-O. But this song, in particular, is over. Please stop acting like that stupid arm thing is fun. It’s really not. And even if you think it is, what do you do for the 12 verses in between? It’s not like you know the words. So, no thank you. 

 

I almost didn’t include this one because everyone already knows this is embarrassing for everyone. No need to draw attention to your single friends. Everyone will know how to find them, anyways. They’re the ones alternately drunk-sobbing in the bathroom and grinding on any man who looks under the age of 65. Unless you have a rich uncle, then age be damned. Mama’s too pretty to work full-time. 

 

The man-version of the bouquet but arguably worse. Why must we all watch the groom climb up his new wife’s dress and pull off a purely ornamental garter? Unless she’s wearing stockings, a garter is ridiculous and probably itchy as hell. Besides, we all know you’re boning later and we’re already playing along with the “for the first time” charade. Spare me this uncomfortable display of foreplay. There are children here.

 

 

So, when my personal prince charming stops audibly farting long enough to propose with a diamond he probably bought from a sad divorcee on eBay…I will know what I want to avoid on my big day. My game plan? Do it quick and dirty and just get to the part where my dad does Jaeger-bombs and my Aunt Helen tries to booty-pop all over my husband’s friends. Oh and collect a shit-ton of gifts. You bitches owe me.