The truth was as plain as day: My real motivation for having a wedding actually had very little to do with the new union I was forming with my husband. It sprang, instead, from a long-held desire to hold court. To make matters worse, my quirky flourishes didn’t absolve me of anything. I was just a bridezilla with hipster taste.
Early on in our planning, when a scheduling snafu almost turned half our family against us, my betrothed floated the idea that we elope. “Come on,” he said, “why don’t we take all this money and just spend a year traveling the world?” I looked at him in horror. He already knew about my bride doll; in a moment of true vulnerability, I’d shown it to him, unpacking her from the decades-old tissue paper that cocooned her safely in my cedar hope chest. How could he not understand that it was my greatest wish to profess my love to him while a hundred people swayed gently in their seats to Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You”? Yet even as I explained this through tears, I was already embarrassed for myself. Deep down, I felt he was right.
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