There’s nothing like a pandemic to make us reconsider long-held prejudices… including the romance of a fancy wedding
Rest in peace, the wedding. I will refrain from dancing on its grave, but only because I’m wearing the wrong shoes. Which is typical. Even in death it screws us on footwear.
Long have I bored on about the wedding’s faults, occasionally in the voice of a person fallen out of love with the world, sometimes with reference to such nostalgic concepts as “capitalism” or “commodification of gender” or “bad cake”. I may have totted up its costs, like a particularly bitter divorcee, grinching in print about the grossly inflated bills for canapés and balloons and sentimental table fetishes. I may have grabbed you in the smoking area and shouted about the passivity of princess culture and its inevitable conclusion, the massive white dress and its required pedestal. The erasure of a woman’s name coming at the end of a performance of proposals and symbolic rings so politically retro it would be no-platformed if booked for a university debate.
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