I love weddings. I suppose it was always inevitable — as a proud British Indian, it’s practically baked into my DNA. Some of my earliest memories are of the entire family piling into the back of my dad’s red Ford Cortina, heading in convoy to some distant relative’s nuptials somewhere on the outskirts of Nottingham or Leeds.
I loved the food, the clothes, the speeches, the colourful expression of it all — but not the cost. In our culture, sadly, if you didn’t spend a second mortgage on the thing, you were apparently failing in your fatherly/motherly duty. I loved my own, a classic Indian affair which culminated in our closest friends and family decamping to the Cotswolds for the grand finale, on a Thursday no less, complete with the groom’s entry on a horse and a 5am finish.
And yet, as this year’s season is fast approaching, I’m experiencing something new, a little existential. A curious mix of anxiety, exhaustion and, maybe, just a little tinge of resentment. Is this… wedding fatigue?
It can’t be. I haven’t been to a single one yet. But perhaps it’s the knowledge that it’s coming, this weird game of matrimonial whack-a-mole. This year is a particular vintage: five in three months, with highlights including a bank holiday weekend double-header (Friday in Yorkshire; Saturday in Essex; Sunday, basically dead).
At first, to conquer this feeling, I thought ruthless efficiency would be key. Open the invitations, fire off the RSVP, and if I were feeling especially thoughtful, a special song that reminds you of the bride and groom (‘Mr Brightside’, always). Next, I’d get the logistics out of the way. Book the hotel, purchase a gift from the lists provided and send a pleading text to the grandparents to cover childcare for 48 hours because, you know, hangovers.
“This year’s weird game of matrimonial whack-a-mole is a particular vintage: five weddings in three months”
(Note to self: do not do any of the above if the bride/groom is an estranged housemate who will expect you to schlep to rural countryside, seat you in social tundra and generally make you hate your life choices. You’re an adult — you can say no.)
When my patience with wedmin began to run Rizla-thin, I moved on to the small gestures that made a big impact; performing acts of service is one of my love languages. Sure, I couldn’t handwrite a two-page essay about the odyssey of our friendship for a hen book (sorry Kate, I promise it’s coming!) but what I could do was show up to your bachelorette at least for a few hours, or help to find you the perfect place for your bridesmaids to get spray tans to offset their prawn-cocktail coloured dresses.
Which brings me to a slow realisation as I write this: that actually the fatigue doesn’t come from the weddings at all. It’s the lack of personal boundaries. It’s the bizarre rituals and expectations and pressure that we all put on ourselves before we actually even get to the damn thing.
Because The Thing itself is always pure joy; seeing two sane people, willingly and hopefully, commit to each other in front of a room full of people bursting with love for them — then throwing one belter of a party for our benefit. Focus on that and wedding season might just be a cinch after all.
