My Beef with “Bridezilla”

Here’s the truth: I never wanted to get married.

Something about the word “wife” makes my skin crawl. Something about wedding cake turns normal, sane independent women into teary-eyed clingy monster girls with no sense of self-identity or sexual drive.

Something about wedding porn made me seriously quiver whenever I tried to calmly browse through the stacks of wedding magazines at the salon or the place where I got my nails did once.

Plus, it’s so feminine, gawdy and expensive.

But you meet the right person, and …


Here’s the truth:

My wedding is one year and one day away.

I have been engaged for 364 days already.

I am ready — finally, maybe — to get this shit moving.


Here’s the truth:

I never thought I would be a bridezilla. I’m much to realistic for that.

But I’m already starting to feel like one.


When you’re planning a wedding, part of you knows you aren’t planning this for you. You’re planning it for your family and friends, so they can experience for a couple of hours your love — and nurture it. But things start to happen to your brain, and everybody wants something or envisions something, and the venues just want to squeeze the maximum dollar value out of you possible. And honestly, I’m embarrassed by it all, by the pressure and attention and the value I’m finding I really do place on this silly party.

I am reminded of when I was young, and I hated when the waiters would circle around our dinner table on the night of my birthday and sing their variation of “Happy Birthday,” and usually I would cry because I hated the attention and the whole restaurant staring at me and I also wanted it so badly and was embarrassed for wanting it …


But it can make you feel sort of isolated.


I know I am not doing this alone — I have a fabulous, patient fiance; a generous, wonderful mother; a brilliant, amazing sister/wedding coordinator; and the best Maid of Honor in the world.

But I can’t help cringing inside when I allow myself to be excited or overdramatic or neurotic like I am, or let my guard down — my facade of “I don’t care.”

And I hate the term “Bridezilla.” It just adds to that embarrassing isolation, doesn’t it?


(Even though it may occasionally be totally apt.)



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