'I Do'...Love the Love
A little Valentine's Day ditty on amour and weddings. Plus, Lady Gaga, mayonnaise, and rubber band balls.
I have been fascinated by weddings, and practically a regular on the scene, ever since I can remember.
At five, I was the flower girl at my Grandpa Harry’s wedding where I refused to wear a headpiece made of pink roses.
At seven, I tossed petals at my Uncle Jeff’s wedding where I loosened up on the flower crown and crushed hard on the blond-haired boy who escorted me down the aisle.
A few years later, I discovered the color periwinkle when asked to be a junior bridesmaid at my cousin Wendy’s nuptials.
What can I say? Weddings had me at “I do.”
As a kid, as soon as the automatic doors opened at the local Waldbaums where I’d go grocery shopping with my mom, I’d make a beeline for the registers where copies of Modern Bride and Bride were stacked alongside the tabloids.
I’d bring them back to Mom who pushed the cart, bagging broccoli and potatoes along the way, while I hitched a ride on the front to flip through the lofty magazines. I’d ogle at gowns and rings and flowers, pointing out the ones I liked best. Mom would usually do a combo eye-roll-smirk and then send me off to get something she forgot. By the time we finished, I had mentally planned my dream wedding: Some days my gown was simple, sexy, silk, and backless, with the ceremony outdoors in September featuring pink and purple hydrangeas. Other days, I’d be adorned in lace and tulle and feathers and the date was set for June with yellow snapdragons. The only constant was that it almost always took place in my backyard, a waterfront property that’s seen many-a-facelift over the years by my creatively green-thumbed father who’s turned it into a sort of suburban Shangri-La, complete with a waterfall Koi pond and pergola where the canal meets the land.
It’s not tremendous, though, so I always struggled with exactly how we’d pull off having the ceremony, the cocktail hour, and the reception in that one space while also still maintaining a calm elegance. And then one day, somewhere between the frozen food section and the canned goods, it came to me: We’re practically family with the neighbors next door, so perhaps they’d allow us to usher guests (via a candlelit pathway, natch) into their backyard for the cocktail hour. Round tables with short bouquets (or perhaps one subtle orchid) would be sprinkled about the lawn, while a steel drum band played as guests snacked on jumbo shrimp cocktail. All the while, back in our yard, a crew would break down the chuppah to make room for a dozen or so tables for feasting, and a dancefloor where Dad and I would cut a rug to “Runaround Sue” as an unexpected father-daughter dance.
So, yeah. I’ve thought about the big day. My big day. In excruciatingly embarrassing detail.
Unfortunately, the closest I’ve come to realizing it flew out the window with an air conditioner back in 2008. (True story.)
Still, I was happy when my best friend since kindergarten asked me to be her maid of honor that same year. Not just a bridesmaid, but I’d be the Skipper to her Barbie, the Luigi to her Mario.
While I was 29 at the time, she was the first of my friends to take the plunge. I had yet to fulfill multiple registry requests or dance to “Boogie Wonderland” while sipping champagne and snacking on pigs in a blanket.
Not only wasn’t it a bother to have a wedding on the calendar, but I was honored to play such a vital role in it. I wasn’t necessarily ready to be the one in the big, poofy gown, but at least it allowed me a sliver of the creamy (vanilla on vanilla) wedding cake I always desired.
Plus, I knew I was the best person for the job. Aside from working as a hostess at my temple’s catering hall throughout high school, I had experience in wedding planning thanks to Barbie and Ken whose betrothal my sister and I staged one hot and sticky summer day in 1988.
Here Comes Barbie
Growing up in the ’80s, the only Barbie accessory I remember having—and my mother may correct me on this—was the ice cream parlor. It may or may not have made actual ice cream, but it was, of course, pink and it played a pivotal part in Jennine and Steaven’s wedding in June of 1988.
OK, so maybe my experience with wedding planning was a bit…played. But the imagination was there and Anna knew I’d use it.
My duties included bridesmaid dress shopping (off-the-rack at Macy’s), planning the shower (rooftop of Sushi Samba with tea cups and chopsticks in the goodie bag), arranging the bachelorette party (a wine weekend in Ithaca) and, of course, preparing a wedding speech for the Big Day.
I spent months thinking about it, weeks writing it, and hours practicing it. As Anna’s “writer friend,” I knew the expectations were high. Perhaps much of it was self-generated, but I still wanted to be witty, yet wise; funny, yet sentimental.
Newsflash: I was!
And just like that, my official wedding duties were complete. All there was left to do was dance. There were no guests to thank or gifts to gather. No great aunt’s names to remember or makeup to reapply for professional photos. For I was not the bride; a fact I subconsciously suppressed throughout the evening thanks to strawberry-infused vodka shots.
Your time will come, I told myself, echoing those who knew me well enough to carefully acknowledge what I was overthinking.
—
And now here we are, what feels like a lifetime later. Anna has two kids, as do many of my other friends who got married after her. I didn’t have to buy 27 dresses for their nuptials, and, unfortunately, I had to watch my sister tie the knot via Zoom at 3a.m. from Paris because of a worldwide pandemic. Perhaps most surprising, though: I stopped thinking about my would-be wedding and imaginary groom when I started living a non-storybook life that wasn’t at all predictable or perfect (despite likely looking so online). And yet, look at the love I still found along the way! From friends, near and far. From a nephew and a niece whose faces when I call show recognition that alone is enough to make a Tata swoon. And, most importantly (according to every self-help book I’ve never read), for myself.
When I looked at the calendar and realized I’d be sending a letter on Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t sure what to write. For over a week, this space remained blank; my cursor staring back at me rather longingly—but not in that come-hither way. Then I remembered this missive I’d never published. I dug through the archives and dusted her off as a single auntie of a certain age is wont to do. She cleaned up nicely, I think!
Like weddings, I’ve always kinda loved the made-up Hallmark holiday as premeditated and silly as it is. I love the pink. I love the chocolates. I love the flowers. (So long as none of it comes from CVS or a certain 1800 number.) “I do” love the love—today, and also every day. For better or worse. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. Married or single. Whether I continue to walk the aisle of life alone—but never really alone—or my companion is yet to sit next to me on a flight and also order a ginger ale, I’ll be here living happily ever before.
Je t’aime, mes amies. Thanks for being here. xx — Sara
To show my gratitude and amour, I’m offering a discount on paid annual subscriptions. Consider it a two-way Valentine: one for you, one for me. :)
Clickable
“If you can make it here…” it’s because of Mom & Dad. | New York
When AI goes rogue. | WaPo
Sex as a Gen Xer: “Everything that remained felt like a privilege.” | NYT Magazine
Where has all the orange juice gone? | The Atlantic
“If a message is blaring, is it still subliminal?” Lamar at the SB. | The New Yorker
San Francisco is Comeback City thanks to its art scene. | Further
See? I wasn’t alone in loving ‘English,’ the play. | Vulture
When it comes to talking, “go deep or go home.” | The Atlantic
Watchable
Even without initially hearing the first words of Lady Gaga’s new song— “the category is dance or die”—I loved this music video and have since watched versions of it several times, whether it was her rehearsing or some influencer on TikTok paying hommage. The song itself is incredibly catchy, but it’s really all about the movement. Gaga’s back, baby. Or, as
explained in a recent newsletter, she’s really “reheating her own nachos.”
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I don’t think this is an ad, which IMO makes for a very good ad—specifically for mayonnaise, the subtle product being used at the beginning. It’s certainly less obvious and more clever than the Hellmann’s ad that dropped featuring When Harry Met Sally costars Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal reuniting at Katz’s. I love me a throwback, but a) this was cringey, and b) who uses mayonnaise at Katz’s? Nobody, that’s who.
Currently overthinking…
…shower curtain and bathmat combos…
Souvenir: Rubber Band Ball
Remember when rubber bands were lying around so much you could create a giant ball of them? OK, me neither. The smelly elastic bands were not necessarily in my purview so making them was not my thing, but I was recently reminded of their existence, which got me wondering: Have you ever made one? How does one start? With a (smaller) actual ball? And then you just keep…wrapping? Enlighten me!
Happy Galentine's, Sara. Thank you for this; it was lovely to read especially on this day <3
Veronica has a rubber band ball in the office and Jared had one as a little boy!