Confessions of a Wedding Virgin
by Meghan Purvis

I’m twenty-five years old and I have never been to a wedding.

I promise, I do actually have friends—weddings have occurred in my various social circles over the years, and I’ve even been invited to a select few of them! But one side effect of going to college a long plane ride away from where you grew up, and then moving out of the country shortly afterwards, is that most weddings are just too far away to make attending on a student budget a viable option.

My aunt was married in California while I sat studying for finals in Ohio; while my cousin was exchanging vows on a beach in Mexico, I was standing in the rain at a bus stop in England. Somehow, I’ve managed to become an adult without ever witnessing one of those ceremonies that, as a child, seemed to be one of those signifiers of adult life.

Finally, though, this is going to change.

In two weeks, a friend of mine is getting married, and it’s a mere car trip away from where I sit right now. Two weeks. Sweet lord. A side effect of finally getting to witness this whole wedding shebang is that I’m now, belatedly, being exposed to all the fussy rituals involved, some more typical than others.

Trying to coordinate the schedules of about twenty women, some of whom will be arriving at airports scattered all over England, for a hen night? That’s fairly conventional. Getting involved in an email discussion of whether one’s feminist sensibilities outweigh the extended family’s appreciation for tradition when it comes to the bouquet toss? Perhaps a bit more modern.

(For the record, after a quorum of the women attending said some variation of “out of respect to your family, I’ll go stand for the bouquet toss should you have one, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to pretend I want to catch the fucking thing,” the bride in her infinite wisdom decided fuck it, it’s her wedding, she’ll give everyone mini-bouquets and hope the great-aunts don’t wither away of shock on the spot.)

Oh, and then there’s the eternal fussing over the outfit. There’s the question of British weather—sure, this wedding is at the end of June, but looking out my bedroom window right now, I’m staring at what I hope is the high point of a thunderstorm...So, do we attempt the near-impossible, a layered ensemble that doesn’t look like a cast-off from an old “Golden Girls” episode? Or just throw a few choice fingers at the heavens, and go for the sleeveless dress?

I’ve ended up going for a sleeveless knee-length dress, which is bringing up the whole other issue of skin color. I’ve never been a fan of tanning beds, but after a long British winter, my legs are currently a perfect match with my white shoes—which probably has an overall lengthening affect, but alas, is probably not the sartorial statement I was hoping to make at a midsummer function.

And let’s not even get started on those ridiculous half-hat contraptions—think a poof of decorative feathers, a miniature top hat and veil, that kind of thing—which it seems you only get the chance to wear at British weddings. Do I risk it? And if I do, will I be forced to down a few whiskeys before the ceremony so I have the Dutch courage to walk into a church wearing what looks like half a grouse on my head?

As I sit here brainstorming through all of the potential pitfalls of this wedding thing, I’m beginning to rethink my new status as Someone Who Goes to Weddings. Maybe all these years, thinking my geographical choices had made me a de facto outcast, I’ve secretly had it right all along...Alas, barring a sudden transfer to the University of Melbourne, I think it’s too late to back out now–wedding season has begun, and I finally have a social circle in close enough proximity to mean I’m taking part in it.

So, should you be attending a wedding in England this summer, look out for me–I’ll be the ultraviolet girl stashing a flask of gin in her headgear. It’ll be grand.

June 14, 2007