Dear Generation Y Bride

Dear Generation Y Bride

I’m super psyched to be a part of your big day. Technically, we’ve only met twice, but as the fiancé of my roommate’s boyfriend’s step brother, I know I wasn’t simply added to the invite list for the sake of another Macy’s registered gift. I know our relationship is deeper than that. It only makes sense that I partake in this sacred celebration! Tonight the battery-operated tea lights are flickering like stars in this hotel ballroom, and I’m delighted to be here.

So far, the highlight of my night has been my conversation with your uncle Greg. Having recently lost his job and 401K savings to a pipe dream impulse (something involving ceramics), he is eager to frequent the open bar and divulge details from his sordid bygone youth. “You know, opium is like a jelly substance, and you roll it up in a ball and smoke it that way,” he tells me, “That’s how we did it in Egypt,1976.” Bewildered, I blink politely as he makes a pinching gesture with his fingers two inches from my face. As you and your father waltz on a vacated laminate wood dance floor to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s ukulele rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” I am trapped in a dark corner by an unsavory vision of my future. I don’t mean to guilt you; I just want you to be aware of all the dimensions of the evening.

You probably noticed that I didn’t join the admiring gaggle of women gasping and squealing about how gorgeous your strapless gown is. It’s just that I’m pretty sure that’s the same gown I saw at the last wedding I attended, and the one before that, and on the cover of every available bride magazine my grandmother stealthily slips into my view. Let me explain myself metaphorically: nobody sees a flock of lovely white doves and points to a single one to gush over its unique beauty. I’m just saying, maybe you could have gone against the grain and slapped some straps on that Vera Wang. That way, upon turning to meet your beloved at the altar, you wouldn’t have to hook your thumbs into the armpits of your gown and hoist your décolletage into place. And on the subject of attire, I’m afraid I’m not the only person to notice those white foam flip flops under your gown. Really, Generation Y bride? This isn’t a locker room shower; it’s your goddamn wedding. The plastic rhinestones bedazzling the straps do not make them “fancy.”

As for Mr. Right, I applaud your effort to involve your man in the planning of the ceremony. But should you marry again, I suggest placing stricter guidelines on the “personal touches” he adds to the event, namely the distributing of mirrored aviator sunglasses to all of the groomsmen. Contrary to his lighthearted intentions, even the younger crowd felt awkward when your wedding party entered the hotel ballroom to “Party Rock Anthem” by LMFAO. Music is a tricky detail, though the punchy DJ you hired is making it look effortless. Thanks to Nora Jones and the theme song from Love Actually, that twenty minute slideshow of pictures of your lives up to the point of your engagement effectively sold your union as our era’s great American love story.

I’m not just congratulating you because I’m drunk. For one thing, your open bar is limited to beer and wine, and any experienced wedding attendant knows that it takes hard liquor to cut through chicken Kiev and get a decent buzz going. Also, I’m not the type to throw around insincere compliments. But you know that, close as we are.

Best Wishes to Both of You,

– Louise Grann (Corelle gravy boat)

P.S. I’ll be damned if cupcakes aren’t the new cake. Nice choice with the cherry icing over chocolate.