SKIMBS

It’s not hard

I never claimed to be good at metaphors, so just as Xerxes looked down upon his fleet of ships from his marble throne, weeping with sudden pity for the short lives of his good men, I look over the wedding reception reckoning with personal pity that everyone here will die, and as cruise-director-in-training, I will play an instrumental role in the success of several funerals. Stupid, right? Weddings are like funerals are like family reunions: constantly coming to terms with the fact that these people who like pickles the same amount as me also have wildly different definitions of what constitutes domestic terrorism; our side profiles are uncannily constructed but we will probably never do mushrooms together. Everyone at this wedding will die. We will attend each other’s funerals.

I may never get married but I am not exempt from the hassle of institutional ceremony. I dream varied scenarios of misplacing my bridesmaid dress that no one will really remember except for me and my mother (cruise director) and having to hightail it to Dillard’s at the eleventh hour to settle for something far better suited for a hedonistic night at the Cheesecake Factory or perhaps prom pictures on the promenade. I am much more elitist than I claim to be on my Instagram story. I get it from the cruise director/Parker Posey incarnate who repeatedly calls the American Legion where we put on the rehearsal dinner “so crusty” (“but I love it!”).

If you misplaced your one and only Reformation dress, you too would dabble in pompousness, because it’s nice to be a pretty bridesmaid in a pretty dress. All the wedding guests tell you as much. “Even if we look ugly,” says Margaret, “everyone will lie.”

I practice my speech so many times I creep on contrivance so I rewrite and cap at 4 minutes¹ (anything over and you simply must get over yourself). I (asshole) teach Tucker (groom) some vocabulary words throughout the speech. Margaret’s subsequent, significantly sweeter speech proves necessary.

I laugh and cry and make faces during their vows (always moving, using air quotes like an ass when Tucker flubs the relationship timeline, pretending the talking stage was longer than it was), obvious enough that Jonas comments on it later. Shoutout to Jonas for filling my wine, and shoutout to me for not even having that much because I am so distracted by the matrimonial commotion and deviled eggs.

I miss the first dance because I take a cigarette break (it’s a wedding!) and lie to every single one of my parents’ friends that run into me on the way to the barn and ask me if I am taking a cigarette break. I narrowly make it for the family dance (is that a thing?) to “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.” The crowd parts for me like the goddamn red sea, chanting “Sadie! Sadie! Sadie!” and goddamn, goddamn, I love attention.

And goddamn, it’s good I show up when I do. The old fart of a DJ (no shade) simply does not know what to do with the playlist (Creed, Chappell Roan, Jimmy Buffet, Offset, Rob Zombie…) so I shake his hand, tell him my name and to bear with me: it’s gonna be a lot fucking easier for him and I both to just let me move some shit around in the queue (cruise-director-in-training!). During his many smoke breaks, I sit down and get to work. We end well: “Head Over Heels 7” Version” followed by “I’ve Seen Footage” and “Pink Pony Club” for the finale.

A cruise-director-in-training is stern but likable. I dish out warnings: one day I will be in charge of your bed pan piss, and your finances will be controlled via mostly secure spreadsheets on my mostly secure MacBook. Treat me well, and you will live as well as you can within the confines of a crumbling economy. The little Jewish ladies in my family (and Granddad, miraculously) will all live to be 150 (we have strong shoulders and an evolutionarily grueling will to live). If you fuck with me, I make you share a room with one of the other broads. Nice to Sadie, and you get a solo crib with a little more wine than the nurse allows.

It’s a sentimental stern. Resentment is a by-product of care. I really do love my family, and I love my new in-laws, too. The energy was palpable: a bunch of endearingly self-absorbed, constantly moving and yapping and dancing and eating and drinking folks that love the bride and groom rather unconditionally. How it should be, right?

But if I get married, no one will hear my vows. No one will see me kiss anyone. I like the privacy and procedural drama of a courthouse. The reception will have good food, an open bar, and the most indirect of sentimentalities. For my wedding, I’ll be a chill girl (no one ever believes me but I’m super chill). For Emma’s, though, I cry (how different, sire, is what thou art now doing, from what thou didst a little while ago! then thou didst congratulate thyself; and now, behold! thou weepest.). That’s some Xerxes shit.

1. My father recently revealed I was pushing 10. ↩︎