I'm getting married this May. With my bride-to-be out of town - and with plenty left to organize on my end - I thought it would be a good idea to spend last Sunday afternoon in Naperville, at the 1999 Bridal Expo. What the hell was I thinking?
For starters, my future wife detests all the frilly, poofy, bejeweled hoopla associated with weddings. My mandate: no "Macarena," no limbo games, no super-stretch limos sporting frothy Jacuzzis. But trying to assemble an understated wedding in the nineties is like trying to scalp Bulls' tickets for anywhere near face value: in other words, damned near impossible. The bridal industry is a $30 billion-a-year bawdy bad dream. And it wants your money. Arriving at the Holiday Inn Select just off I-88, I find myself lost in a crowded Cinderella's castle. Blaring forth from a karaoke contraption buried somewhere within the convention center's innards, some guy yodels the Village People's "YMCA". "Young man, there's no need to feel down!" he blasts.
The lobby of the hotel smells like wedding cake. All around are women: made-up, hair-sprayed, excited and beaming, they are here to plan their big day. The joy is infectious; as a Gingiss girl approaches me with tuxedo options, I find myself excited, too. A few bug-eyed men are in attendance, trailing their fiancées on invisible leashes. Of the hundreds of people sardined in, it appears that I am the only solo groom here, a stranger in a very strange land. A haggard model decked out in a shiny and showy storm of a wedding gown - sequins and pearls and poofery hovering around her like shit picked up by a tornado - smokes a Marlboro Menthol and gives me a look that says "Who's the unshaven pervert carrying the Modern Bride Magazine?"
Traversing deeper into wedding wonderland, black lights flicker, neon lights dance and "The Windy City Hit Man" pumps thumping Sinatra tunes over giant speakers. An adjoining booth displays wedding videos of a beer-gutted groom, tuxedo shirt tossed to the wind, dancing at his reception. "Par-tay!" he yells, finger raised above his head Travolta-style. Not really something to aspire to. "Just think what you and the missus can do in this," says a stubby guy with a handlebar mustache, flashing a photo of a white, eighteen-foot stretch limousine. "White leather interior. Fully stocked bar. Plenty of room to stretch out, if you get my drift." Uh-huh.
From all directions I am accosted: photographers, videographers, bakers, florists, tailors and travel agents approach like the proverbial car salesman. Calgon, take me away.
Dizzy, I stumble back out to the hotel lobby to locate a pay phone. A few calling card digits later, my fiancée is on the other end.
"Honey," I say, "Please, can we just elope?"
(Sam Weller)
copyright 1999 New City Communications, Inc.