shaving.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t have any razors,” I reasoned. Stay calm, I told myself, keep the edge.
“I’ll bring you one,” she informed me. “The way you keep parts of your body is disgusting. Where did you learn these things? I raised you to shave. You can’t let other people see you like that!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “No one’s coming in with me!”
“Oh yes,” she said, and I could sense her smile widen on the other end of the phone. “Yes, they certainly do. They have to dress you.”
“You didn’t tell me that strangers were going to see me naked,” I protested. “I don’t want strangers to see me naked! I’m going to have to put on some underwear, and I don’t even know if I
have
any.”
I’m sure she believed that she was teaching me a lesson, but she wasn’t. She was only proving that she could enforce her vetoing power only as a mother who was paying for her daughter’s wedding could.
Today was going to be an important battle in the war of my wedding, the struggle over the bridal gown. Up until now, my mother had exercised her veto power in pretty much every area known to
Bride
’s magazine and we barely agreed on anything.
You see, in other places in the world, where weddings haven’t become big business, getting married is easy. In Kenya, the father of the bride spits on the bride’s head and on her breasts to demonstrate his good wishes, and as the bride departs, she does not look back for fear that she will turn to stone. All you need is some drool and an allegorical threat that a fair maiden will turn into a monolith and the wedding is a rampant success. The mother doesn’t have time to figure out how to ruin the experience for her daughter.
But here, things are different. You need a ceremony, reception, a band, a DJ, invitations, favors, a caterer, a photographer, a florist, a baker, a videographer—the list doesn’t end, ever. I believe my family is the current world-record holder for attending more weddings that we weren’t invited to. As a result, I’ve crashed more receptions in one day than I did parties during my entire time as an undergraduate.
My mom, still fresh from planning my sister’s wedding, had a pretty good idea of the way she wanted things to be and who she wanted to hire in this off-Broadway production. I thought that I might have some bargaining power since it was my wedding, but I was obviously using it incorrectly. The whole thought of the event would make my stomach burst into boiling ulcers, so I did the only thing I could do: I asked my shrink for $120’s worth of advice.
“It’s
your
wedding, Laurie,” she stressed. “You’re going to have to fight for what you want.”
“I know, I know,” I answered. “But it’s beyond that. You don’t understand.”
“It can’t be
that
bad,” my therapist said. “Pick out certain things that are especially important to you, and focus on those. Something like your invitations, your dress, the place where the wedding will be.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “except that I found out that my mom’s been looking at places without me.”
My therapist stopped for a moment, crinkled her brow, then sat back in her chair.
“In that case, you have only one option,” she said slowly. “Give up. Surrender. You’re fighting a losing battle. Try and concentrate on your honeymoon, then.”
“You think I should give up? Just like that?” I stuttered. “Well, can you ask someone else, like one of your therapist friends? Can you ask them for advice?”
She just shook her head. It was obviously useless.
I was remembering that conversation when my mom pulled into the driveway. I could tell she was excited. She just kept honking the horn, over and over again. I locked the side door of the house and started walking toward the car. In less than half an hour, I thought to myself, I will be standing in front of a mirror in some bridal store, looking at my reflection and
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t have any razors,” I reasoned. Stay calm, I told myself, keep the edge.
“I’ll bring you one,” she informed me. “The way you keep parts of your body is disgusting. Where did you learn these things? I raised you to shave. You can’t let other people see you like that!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “No one’s coming in with me!”
“Oh yes,” she said, and I could sense her smile widen on the other end of the phone. “Yes, they certainly do. They have to dress you.”
“You didn’t tell me that strangers were going to see me naked,” I protested. “I don’t want strangers to see me naked! I’m going to have to put on some underwear, and I don’t even know if I
have
any.”
I’m sure she believed that she was teaching me a lesson, but she wasn’t. She was only proving that she could enforce her vetoing power only as a mother who was paying for her daughter’s wedding could.
Today was going to be an important battle in the war of my wedding, the struggle over the bridal gown. Up until now, my mother had exercised her veto power in pretty much every area known to
Bride
’s magazine and we barely agreed on anything.
You see, in other places in the world, where weddings haven’t become big business, getting married is easy. In Kenya, the father of the bride spits on the bride’s head and on her breasts to demonstrate his good wishes, and as the bride departs, she does not look back for fear that she will turn to stone. All you need is some drool and an allegorical threat that a fair maiden will turn into a monolith and the wedding is a rampant success. The mother doesn’t have time to figure out how to ruin the experience for her daughter.
But here, things are different. You need a ceremony, reception, a band, a DJ, invitations, favors, a caterer, a photographer, a florist, a baker, a videographer—the list doesn’t end, ever. I believe my family is the current world-record holder for attending more weddings that we weren’t invited to. As a result, I’ve crashed more receptions in one day than I did parties during my entire time as an undergraduate.
My mom, still fresh from planning my sister’s wedding, had a pretty good idea of the way she wanted things to be and who she wanted to hire in this off-Broadway production. I thought that I might have some bargaining power since it was my wedding, but I was obviously using it incorrectly. The whole thought of the event would make my stomach burst into boiling ulcers, so I did the only thing I could do: I asked my shrink for $120’s worth of advice.
“It’s
your
wedding, Laurie,” she stressed. “You’re going to have to fight for what you want.”
“I know, I know,” I answered. “But it’s beyond that. You don’t understand.”
“It can’t be
that
bad,” my therapist said. “Pick out certain things that are especially important to you, and focus on those. Something like your invitations, your dress, the place where the wedding will be.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “except that I found out that my mom’s been looking at places without me.”
My therapist stopped for a moment, crinkled her brow, then sat back in her chair.
“In that case, you have only one option,” she said slowly. “Give up. Surrender. You’re fighting a losing battle. Try and concentrate on your honeymoon, then.”
“You think I should give up? Just like that?” I stuttered. “Well, can you ask someone else, like one of your therapist friends? Can you ask them for advice?”
She just shook her head. It was obviously useless.
I was remembering that conversation when my mom pulled into the driveway. I could tell she was excited. She just kept honking the horn, over and over again. I locked the side door of the house and started walking toward the car. In less than half an hour, I thought to myself, I will be standing in front of a mirror in some bridal store, looking at my reflection and
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