Anyone in a lady bromance knows this to be true: your best friend also doubles as your platonic significant other. There are date nights involving romantic dinners in dimly-lit restaurants and moonlit strolls (for me and T, we try to make this happen on as many Sunday nights as we can possibly schedule); you know to leave the ice out of her glass of water because she has sensitive teeth, and she knows that at any given moment you are liable to make a vaguely musical sound for no reason whatsoever; wherever you go, you know each other’s usual drink orders and can usually predict with deadly accuracy what the other will order off the menu; very frequently, your mutual friends will tell you that you have the same speech mannerisms and opinions on a wide range of topics, even one as insignificant as Lena Dunham’s perpetual nakedness on Girls.
Eventually, even your actual significant other becomes threatened upon realizing that the date suggestions they reject are the ones your best friend will happily take you up on, and that the restaurant you love that they can’t stand is the one your boo frequently orders take out from and personally delivers to your house for the hell of it. The pure romance in the non-romance becomes so palpable that it gets to a point where people start to joke, “Why don’t you guys just get married?”…and then you both actually begin to entertain the kind of cluster-fuck of a wedding that would be.
Last night during our Sunday walk and in between heavy rounds of maniacal laughter, T and I did this very thing, We already celebrate a frienniversary, after all; it was only a matter of time before we started jokingly imagining a more permanent union with gleeful curiosity. What follows is an accurate account of how we picture giving our hypothetical “I do’s.”
It will be a schizophrenic mess.
T is very classic: white dress, long veil, round diamond in a solitaire setting. I’m very…not: leather jacket, lace-up boots, not a ring but a tattoo. She wants a good-sized celebration; I want as few people as humanly possible because I’m convinced the more people there are, the more likely it is that someone will fuck with my shit. She is Jewish, and I’m a very very very very lapsed Catholic who just believes we’re all connected and wants people to be kind, empathetic, and to eat a lot of donuts while we’re all here. Needless to say, our two aesthetics are pretty much in a Romeo and Juliet type of situation, except ain’t no one gonna die over this one. I happen to think combining the two would be kind of hilarious, seeing as how what’s more than likely to happen is no one will have a clue where the hell they are and what the hell is happening. I quite like chaos. (Probably why I suspect I’d make quite the warlord…)
We will hire all the bands.
“Dude, we need a wedding song,” I announced. “For when they’re like, ‘For the first time ever, Mrs. and Mrs. So-and-so.”
“We’re hyphenating that shit – obviously!”
“But, shit. Which song?”
Not “shit” because we couldn’t think of a fitting song, but “shit” because we simply have too many of them. From classics like, “Strangers in the Night” and “Close to You,” to ’80s hits like, “Take On Me,” “The Promise,” and, yes, even “Jessie’s Girl,” the songs of our friendship have managed to defy the limits of genres and decades (and sometimes even relevance, because I’m pretty sure at one point one of us posted, “Wild Thing” on the other’s Facebook wall along with the message, “This is now our song” [and by “one of us,” I mean me]). So instead of making a definitive decision, we’ve decided to forgo all the bullshit and USE ALL THE SONGS AND HIRE ALL THE BANDS. If it’s going to be a cluster-fuck already, we might as well not half-ass it.
We will have all the food.
Burgers. Salmon. Gourmet pizza. Crab. Crab cakes. A breakfast food buffet filled with pancakes, waffles, french toast, AND DIFFERENT KINDS OF BACON. A chocolate fountain in which you dip MORE CHOCOLATE. Steak – every cut and kind because our wedding will be a safe space in which no one will discriminate. Lobster. Salad, for the wimpy folks (I swear…still a safe space…just keep eating your salad, don’t mind my subtly suggestive head-tilts towards the TATER TOT MOUNTAIN). Burritos. CHURROS. MOTHER FUCKING MOZZARELLA STICKS AND LUMPIAS (but not wrapped in one, obviously, cuz that’d be weird…OR THE MOST BRILLIANT ACCIDENT EVER). We mean it. ALL the food.
I will come down the aisle on an elephant.
Because nothing says rock ‘n’ roll like bobbing and cruising along on the back of a sauntering pachyderm. This is happening, guys.
We will invite LeVar Burton and Tom Wilson.
Because to not would just be rude.
Tell us it’s not just us – share your lady bromantic wedding vision in the comments! (The funniest one shall receive an emoticon representative of me laughing uproariously, and perhaps another, very special emoticon that imitates the appearance of world-famous wallaby, Rocko of Rocko’s Modern Life. [Life just got so good and so full of hope, didn’t it?])
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