The hidden costs of weddings

You are engaged? Congratulations! I am So glad for you.

Real.

Although – and don’t take this the wrong way – I’ve heard that weddings are quite expensive? Lots of hidden costs?

Like, to rent that converted barn for the ceremony — you know, the only one in the state that hasn’t housed an animal in a hundred years? That will cost you ten thousand dollars just for the afternoon. But also book the nearby Muppets-themed miniature golf course for the same afternoon, so that you can tell your partner with confidence that it is not available? Another three thousand.

And it’s not easy being green – it’s not cheap either. Paperless invites are a start, but to throw a truly sustainable wedding, you’ll need to plant a handful of trees to offset the travel emissions for every out-of-town guest. A small bush when someone comes flying in from overseas. Soon you’ll be looking at another 8,000 saplings and labour, to make sure the weekend is completely carbon neutral.

That’s a lot.

Although it pales in comparison to what it will cost to make the event politically neutral. Contribution limits help, but still, donating to every campaigning politician will burn a hole in your wallet as well as your morale.

And how much does it cost to make the bathrooms gender neutral? Actually it costs nothing. Unless you find yourself within earshot of Uncle Len, it will cost you your whole evening.

Sure, you can invite Uncle Len to DJ the reception, in which case he’ll be too distracted by the task at hand to object to your “performative bathroom vigilance.” And you also save on hiring a real DJ – a not inconsiderable amount – although you have to weigh this against the considerable risks involved in passing the aux cable to Uncle Len.

Focus on the positives! Like, how cool are champagne towers? Very cool! And the best? They work just as well with Mountain Dew as they do with Dom Pérignon – or should I say them photographer as well. That’s about the same. All told, twenty bucks for a centerpiece that will dominate your guests’ Instagram stories is pretty compelling.

Much more convincing than your mc, a friend of a friend, whose name is Kane, and whose only qualification is his uncontrolled extroversion. Yes, you save a few hundred if you don’t hire a professional, but your cheap host is about to (in this order) your religious extended family, your spouse’s mother, all women everywhere, all pet owners everywhere, all women alienate again, the young, the old, the middle-aged, the yet to be born, the departed, Nascar fans (oddly enough), your religious extended family again, and himself.

You could invite your Generation Z cousins ​​in an effort to get the party going. But instead of showing up with bags full of the latest party drugs as you’d hoped, they arrive sober – vaping at best – and full of questions about more than just your decorating choices. Why even get married? When did you become such a normie? Why do you feel compelled to perpetuate these dusty, heteronormative institutions? Do you really want to go all in for monogamy?

You tell yourself it will all be worth it for the registry. You drink. You dance. At some point you pass out.

You wake up the next day, broke, hungover and with a vague memory of dancing an Irish jig as Uncle Len blared “Come On Eileen” at full volume for the third time. And yet you are hopeful. You check the register – a single Italian appliance or a French cast-iron pan would provide enough comfort. But you soon see that, although you never want clothes hangers again, the Smeg fridge and the Le Creuset frying pan have remained untouched.

Still busy? pity. ♦