“A bride must look her best on her wedding day.”
Ok, fine. I want to look nice. But I want to look my best. Mine. My own. Not the version of me that could, conceivably, maybe, be achieved with months of prep, dieting, exercise, etc. ad infinitum. You know what? This is the body my fiancé has been seeing and yes, sleeping with (sorry, mum) these past few years. This is the body I had when he asked me to be his wife, and this is the body his wife will have.
(I won’t speak for the hair. He came home two summers ago to find it all gone in a pixie cut, and two weeks after that dyed a gingery red. So no guarantees there.)
And what about what I owe to all those people who paid good plane tickets, hotel rooms and wedding gifts to see the spectacle?* Well, they’re there to see me, too, not some glamourous, skinny stranger with über shiny hair six months in the making and a supergirdle undergarment. (I’m not kidding; one of the sites recommended working on your hair months in advance.) They’re there to see their smart alec future PhD relative marry sweet, responsible, smart alec goodguy NTS. If I got all skinny and shiny, they would never recognise me.**
So kiss it, all of you wedding websites that tout being perfectly perfect at your unrealistically perfect wedding. I will be I at my wedding, and it will be perfectly imperfect. Just like our marriage. Just the way we like it. Interesting. Real. Or at least, an unreality of our own devising.
Like this wedding:
* “The Spectacle” being the bride, and NTS and his brother in monkey suits.
** Note: There is no danger of this.