To the bride-to-be and the wedding planner who should be fired, like yesterday,
Remember that one time we jetted off to Vegas over Labor Day weekend on half a tank of gas, $62 in our pockets, and stolen borrowed whore-ish excuses for dresses from your sister’s closet? One of the most (err, least?) memorable weekends, right? K, now ask me what exciting adventure I have penciled in this year. Oh wait – you already did, in the form of overpriced card stock with an option of chicken or fish.
I don’t mean this letter to come off bitchy, but I also don’t mean for you to actually read it. But as my good friend, if there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that if there’s one thing I love more than getting obliterated on your dad’s dime celebrating my good friend’s love and happiness, it’s taking time to celebrate winning my sixth round of beer pong in a row the freedom I was given by the people who sacrificed their lives for me… or something like that. *Googles “meaning of Labor Day”*
In hindsight, your holiday weekend wedding probably sounded like the perfect idea—sure, it’s double the celebration, back-to-back scheduled daily activities, and your guests can take one less day off of work, but the one day a year dedicated to you probably shouldn’t also be a day that’s dedicated to thirsty Instagram hoes in flag bikinis the working class. So it’s time I let you in on the cold hard truth. Holiday weekend weddings are fucking miserable, and before you come up with a list of reasons why I’m wrong, and slightly selfish but mostly bitter, I’m like three steps ahead of you:
“But you already have an extra day off work!”
Let’s just set one thing straight here—you get ONE wedding day (unless you’re me, and planning on marrying the second time around for monetary purposes, but I digress). You’re not 16 again and able to call dibs on a month-long celebration. Weekend-long weddings are an excuse for weekend-long activities that do not include me spending my precious Monday off at a hotel brunch with Aunt Karen and Uncle Bill as I try to recall whether or not I actually did flash my left boob at the bartender for a double shot.
“But everyone else will probably be on vacation anyway!”
Maybe you haven’t heard of a little thing called holiday weekend in rush hour traffic on the 405 freeway, but everyone else on the Western hemisphere kicking off their vacation at the same time on what seems like the same goddamn highway, is just about as nauseating as the three-day hangover I was about to happily indulge in. Not to mention the jacked-up cost of holiday travel and borderline-slutty wedding outfits for each activity that equals out to like, a shit ton of money I don’t have, and that’s before the gift. If I’m being honest, I had really only budgeted for one polka-dot Kate Spade serving dish.
“But you don’t have to scramble to make holiday plans!”
Am I missing something? What was that about “making plans”? Idk if you just misheard or if the sound of Christina Perri’s “A Thousand Years” has been mutilating your ears since you got engaged, but I have a FREE DAY OFF. “Free” as in a paid vacation. “Free” as in not having to squeeze into Spanx on a Monday while plotting Linda from reception’s death after hearing that godawful “good morning” greeting. That kind of “free.” These kinds of things come around as often as that eclipse that blinded half of America’s biggest idiots (or so it seems), so the only thing I’ll be scrambling for in the coming days, with the exception of a Sunday brunch blackout, is a menu of newly released Netflix shows on my binge list.
“But it’ll be so fun to ring in a special holiday all together!”
I hate to break it to you, but New Year’s Eve is not all about the #AlwaysAndForEvans wedding for as long as I shall live. I, for one, don’t want to have to think about the groomsman’s unfortunate case of whiskey dick every new year for the rest of my life once the clock strikes 12. That also means that every holiday will be overshadowed by your anniversary, and I’m not the slightest willing in the right head space to make that sort of commitment. So I think I speak for every other human with a questionably high alcohol tolerance life when I politely recommend that you quit trying to hijack our three-day holiday weeken—
“But it’s open bar!”
Ugh fine, put me down for the grilled chicken.
Seriously though, it is open bar, right?