My ideal wedding, age 6: The ringbearer is a puppy, the cake is chocolate. The wedding is held in a beautiful old church because beautiful old churches are where all people get married—even Jews from New Jersey.
My ideal wedding, age 9: Basically, it’s The Princess Bride but starring Michael J. Fox as Westley, me as Buttercup. And plenty of unpoisoned wine at a mostly traditional feast, except that there’ll be a whole lot of chicken fingers.
My ideal wedding, age 12: Themed weddings can be quite fun and unique. My wedding will be Broadway musical-themed, just like my bat mitzvah. My future husband will rescue me from some ogre beneath the Paris Opera House, and then we will sing “All I Ask of You” to each other in lieu of traditional vows. Terribly disfigured people will not be invited to attend.
My ideal wedding, age 13: The “November Rain” video meets Pride and Prejudice meets my cousin Stephanie’s wedding at a catering hall on Long Island.
My ideal wedding, age 17: A beach ceremony would be so profound. I’d walk down the aisle barefoot, as the sweet swells of Oasis’s “Champagne Supernova” accompany me as I walk towards my soulmate Danny, that cute dude from acting class with the soul patch.
My ideal wedding, age 20: Not sure who I’ll marry, or when, or where, but who cares, as long as there’s an open bar? White Russians are a nice breakfast drink, then champagne at the ceremony, and perhaps something festive and extravagant like Long Island Iced Teas for the reception.
My ideal wedding, age 24: Who will win me? A vast and diverse group of men (all in their late twenties and all dashing and successful) shall compete on a reality TV program set at some island villa that is strangely insect-free. I will fall in love with one very special gentleman over the course of two weeks. A crew of super friendly TV production folks will capture all of the important moments, including our first dance as a married couple to Usher’s “U Got It Bad.”
My ideal wedding, age 26: Fuck the groom. Like I give one fuck about the groom. Instead, let’s focus on the bridesmaids: There are 14 of them. They will wear strapless sea foam green dresses from David’s Bridal and excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes, dyed to match. I’ll dictate one-by-one how I’d like each bridesmaid to wear her hair, and all of the maids will have matching silver manicures and pedicures, or I will accuse them of being terrible friends and not supporting me emotionally.
My ideal wedding, age 29: Why spend money on bullshit like flowers and favors and food when me and my future husband can focus our money where it really counts—diamond-encrusted statement eyeglasses?
My ideal wedding, age 31: Just like, get a bunch of people together and throw a party, you know? Totally chill. Make a cool iTunes playlist and get some cheeseburgers and booze and let people dance.
My ideal wedding, age 32: No dancing allowed. I will be more uptight than the preacher in Footloose (the 1984 John Lithgow version, of course). Anything to prevent any kind of group dance routine that would make for a catchy YouTube video. Those damn YouTube videos—more than any feminist misgivings about structural inequality in marriage—make me think weddings are bullshit.
My ideal wedding, now: Who knows? I certainly spend less time thinking about it than I did when I was a kid. I often like to think that the ideal wedding is no wedding at all. I’d be fine signing some papers to get the tax benefits out of marriage with a person I love if the opportunity presents itself. No fuss, no big deal. However, I would still like a puppy ringbearer.
Previously: Minor Tragedies on the Internet: A Yearly Diary
Photo via geckoam/flickr.
Maris Kreizman is the creator of Slaughterhouse 90210, a blog and soon-to-be book (Flatiron Books, 2015) that celebrates the intersection of her two great loves–literature and pop culture. A former book editor, Maris cannot get enough of critiquing her own writing.