I like to think of myself as a non-bridey kind of bride. By non-bridey, I mean traditional wedding dresses aren’t my thing and the idea of getting hitched surrounded by an entourage fills me with dread. Spending a small fortune on table dressing, favours, invites and such isn’t up my street either. Talking about it bores me even more than implementing it.
So when my OH proposed in September 2010 we planned to get married in 6 weeks. Together, we drew up a guest list of 35 close friends and family and decided on a simple registry office affair with a meal afterwards in our favourite restaurant. We expected that people might have a few drinks, a bite to eat and after lots of merriment we’d be thrown out at closing time. To invite these 35 people, we found a simple blue template on Vistaprint and that was good enough for us.
I found the perfect dress online at £150 (our greatest extravagance) and decided on 2 simple dresses for my flower girls. We picked out plain silver band rings from a local jeweler that didn’t cost the earth. I decided on a small bouquet of whatever flowers were available on the day, it would just die at the end of the day after all. All in all, our wedding was going to be low key, relaxed and all about our love for each other.
It seems I was a moron for thinking any of that was ever going to happen.
The first thing to go out of the window was our intimate guest list. My parents, both coming from large families, deemed it was imperative that we invited Aunt Edna’s uncles-brothers-sisters-aunts-cousins-niece and everyone inbetween. Our guest count went from 35 to 180 almost overnight, blowing everything from our budget to our plans for a Greek mezze.
I somehow ended up with 7 (yes, S E V E N) bridesmaids, H2B ended up with 8 groomsmen all of whom we had to dress on the day. My Mum came up with grand ideas for favours, place cards, cakes, invites…really everything that I hate about weddings. I started getting phone calls from long-lost relatives wondering if they’d be invited; “…and don’t forget your Uncle Zebedee will only eat steak!” they’d add.
And thence began the barrage or criticism posing as intrigue- “You won’t be having your Jedward hair will you?”, “Are you covering up that tattoo?”, “I suppose you’ll be losing weight?”. On and on it went, worsened by the fact that in order to pay for this spectacle my parents needed and extra 2 years of saving. I pushed for the original plan, but they had mind up. Their one and only daughter would be getting married “properly” and it would take a family rift to dissuade them of that.
So, for all this time I have put up with wedding talk for the sake of my Mother, who (it seems) appears to think she is the one getting married, and now that we are nearly there and I’ve got so much to do, these people who offered their services in the first place are nowhere to be found and I find myself tying 7mm ribbon around 180 favours myself. Inevitably, someone always wades in the last moment and suggests something “much better” or “much more wedding appropriate” (I personally see nothing wrong with having the Kraken on your wedding cake) and it’s at that moment when the transformation occurs. So next time someone calls you a Bridezilla, direct them to this blog and point out that Bridezilla’s are made, not born.