Via orchid_thief
Yesterday we were all seeeerious. Even Robin, who loves me, told me this morning that my DOMA post was a snoozer.
Mo, who loves me in an entirely different way, told me this morning that she liked the DOMA post, but wished it had contained a greater exploration of the specific constitutional issues. Because she is the dorkiest law dork that ever dorked.
Assuming most of you feel more like Robin and less like Mo, let’s take a 180 today, shall we?
I know that many of my exes have married, as exes tend to do. This used to be information one traditionally found out because her mother happened upon the announcement in her hometown Sunday paper and clipped it out for her to see. (I use the term “happened upon” very loosely . . . I think my mother reads that section of the paper as faithfully and intently as she reads the obituaries. So does yours.)
Now, thanks to the good people of Facebook, I have more information than one crumby pixelated photograph and the name of the graduate school where the happy couple met. As I believe I have confessed before, I tended to burn bridges in break-ups. By burn bridges, I mean rig the bridge in advance with bombs timed to explode just as I run across the bridge while throwing hand grenades backwards over my shoulders.
Ahem.
I am not proud but I am honest.
Somehow, happily, many of my exes have forgiven or forgotten my infantile nonsense enough to be Facebook friends with me. Ergo, when they are “in a relationship” it pops up onto my computer screen with a little heard icon next to it, and, when they wed, I get to see pictures.
I, of course, want to see these pictures — both because we have shared history and I like them and care about them and am happy to see them happy, and because I am, to a fault, an unflatteringly curious bear. I’m not motivated by jealousy as I’m not jealous generally, and I am now so happy in my own relationship that jealousy is really not a factor. Even though I know this curiosity of mine is quite unbecoming, I comfort myself with the fact that, because I have draped our lives all over the interwebbles, there is a legitimate quid pro quo. I really couldn’t make it easier to peer into our world. And heck, I’m all gay all over the place, so I do get some points for boldness or bravery or something, right?
I can say with a clear heart that I am happy when those I have dated find their match. I am not so evil that I have left a wee battlefield of slain soldiers behind me that will only allow me access to an online slice of them; I can confirm that a few of my previous relationship folks have graciously allowed me back into their lives in an in-person way. When I meet their loves, I almost to a one think they are lovely and perfect for them.
But.
What about when there is no in-person connection, and I am just left with wedding snaps in a Facebook album?
And, from those snaps, I discover that the new love wore a bad gown?
Well, then I lose any sense of civility, of maturity, of dignity, of kindness.
I say to myself, “Self! How is that that someone I dated married a lady who wore that gown!?”
I take it personally, because, clearly, the poor taste of a woman I have never met displayed at that woman’s own wedding is a reflection on me.
I know we all have different taste and many weddings are gorgeous even if they aren’t how-you-would-have-done-it and you may have thought our wedding was atrocious and all brides are beautiful and it’s the marriage that matters blah, blah, blah. But, come on.
Really, that dress?
You know the dress. In every generation of wedding dresses, there is a wedding dress style that is so overdone, so ubiquitous, so common, that I can’t imagine anyone on earth that I could ever like would willingly chose to wear it. How they would miss that it’s in every store, and that every designer, upscale and down, has at least one — or in most cases multiple — version of it.
Reasonable minds can differ about the “best” gown. Dress choice appropriately fluctuates because of theme of wedding, personal style, season, time of day, age of wearer, body type, etc. I have a wide appreciation for another’s choices and style — but not when her choice is the de facto gown of the day. And it is not as though anyone’s choice of the de facto gown bugs me. When we were planning our wedding I was an all-too-frequent visitor of wedding blogs and sites, and though some people chose “that” gown, this reaction of mine was entirely absent. In fact, I almost certainly found their weddings pretty and sweet.
Look, I’m not a girl who’s particularly creative, and I’m certainly not fashion-forward. (She said, finding herself again in a skirt, again in neutral pumps, again in her glasses, again in a cream silk sweater set. Taking the naughty out of naughty librarian, as it were.) But I do fancy myself more unique than the obviously run-of-the-mill, over-before-it-started gown. And, Brides of My Exes, I want you to fancy yourself the same.
Ah, today I don’t just rhyme with “batty.” Today I rhyme with ”knob.”
No, I’m not going to post an example of the de facto gown. I may be a silly child, but I’m still ever-so-slightly a lady.
May we all live happily ever after.
