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My misanthropy seems to be reaching new highs (or would that be lows?) these days. Even my guy has noticed it, although I doubt he likes to actually consider me a misanthrope. Which is how I prefer it, really. I typically try to play my general dislike of humanity off as a cute quirk than a character flaw. Unfortunately, it’s getting harder and harder to mask my colors, especially after reporting to my guy that I spent the majority of my sister’s wedding shower holed in a corner with multiple glasses of wine instead of getting to know my three soon-to-be sister-in-laws.
“Wow, you really are antisocial, aren’t you?” he said upon hearing this.
I laughed. “What, you’re just realizing this now?”
“No,” he replied. “But I am starting to see just how deep it runs.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
But my not liking people (and that includes nearly the entire human race) is just the tip of a gigantic mountain of issues I’m experiencing with my sister’s wedding. It’s funny how nuptials don’t really equal bliss for anyone these days, which probably explains why the cornerstone of any decent wedding reception is alcohol.
I suppose I should be thankful that my sister is orchestrating what will likely go down as one of the most nontraditional (heterosexual) weddings on the planet. But even as such, it doesn’t lessen the twinge of being “sister of the bride.” I can’t quite decide what’s more humiliating: being introduced as “This is the sister of the bride, she’s got a great career,” or being chided for not doing my “job” as maid of honor and counting the number of ribbons my sister broke when opening her shower gifts. (Apparently, in some circles I have no intention of ever joining, the number of ribbons the bride breaks signifies the number of children she’ll have. Who comes up with this shit?)
I am, it seems, completely unfit to be a maid of honor. There’s probably an “Idiot’s Guide To…” that I could buy to explain my duties, but even if my role were all mapped out for me, I can’t say I have it in me to rally around anyone, let alone my sister, with the appropriate lace doilies, tiaras, and penis balloons that seem to accompany every other bride in her prenuptial parties. It’s hard enough to put on a happy face when confronted by throngs of women whose only question besides, “When do you think you sister will have children?” is “When do you think you’ll get married?”
My standard answer, “What’s the point, when living in sin is so satisfying?” isn’t so far from the truth. I suppose I could phrase my answer gentler than that, maybe throw in a, “I’m just waiting for the right time,” but that would only lead to more inappropriate questions I have no impetus to answer. Besides, I subscribe to the “Let’s give ‘em something to talk about” philosophy, so I find that the sideways glances and hushed whispers in my direction satisfy my snark greatly.
No one is interested in the truth anyway – they’re just looking to have someone cater to an antiquated notion that happiness can only be achieved through marriage and children. Weddings tend to harbor the delusional, I’m discovering.
Sadly, my own delusion –that I could stay out of all the planning and just be told where to stand on the big day- doesn’t seem to be playing out. Some strange genetic loyalty I have to my sister keeps getting in the way of my apathy. Consequently, I am entrenched in bickering between my sister and my mother, who have such wildly opposing ideas and methods that I’m afraid their only common ground is going to be a cemetery plot.
It’s hard to believe I’m from the same planet as these two. But when I hear my mother make suggestions like, “We don’t need chairs for the ceremony – we’ll just have everyone gather around,” [that’s 150 people gathering around, by the way] and my sister make plans to have two of her bridesmen [I am the only chick who will be standing up behind her] build her a Krispie Kreme wedding “cake,” I wonder if maybe I wasn’t the baby left on my parent’s door step by aliens, and not my sister as I’ve been telling her all these years.
In the end, I suppose all these crazy details work themselves out. At what expense remains to be seen. As for me, the rapidly-loosing-her-ability-to-be-nice sister of the bride and maid of horror/honor, I’ve recently purchased the dress I’ll wear to the wedding. My sister has been kind enough to allow me to wear what I please, so I’ve picked up a sexy-yet-elegant swishy little number. It’s black. That just seemed fitting.
July 11th, 2007 at 12:43 am
After tiring of all the planning and bickering around our shotgun wedding, my ex and I went for a drive. Funny thing happened. We ended up in Vegas where I was married by a drunk leper-chaun (not a spelling error)