Whoddathunkit? The Single Bridezilla “debate” rages on over at the Daily Mail (142 comments and counting!) and even though I know I shouldn’t even bother reading anymore, I can’t help myself. The things people will say when they have nothing better to do with their time (and the internet to assure their anonymity) shall never cease to amaze me—especially because this whole Single Bridezilla thing isn’t nearly the big deal that everyone is making it out to be.
I’ve got to hand it to the Brits—being the descendents of Shakespeare and all, their insults far outweigh those of their American cousins. I particularly enjoyed “Good God, where did this chin sniffer get that nose !!! Looks like she’s done a 100 yard dash in a 90 yard gym.” I had to read that one several times before I got it, so I thank you for that dose of amusement Grant from Wilts.
I also liked “who NOSE when they will marry!! God NOSE!!” Very clever (and given the provenance of this particular comment, I’m to understand the people from Wilts—wherever the hell Wilts is—must be very beautiful to take such an interest in suggesting various plastic surgeries for me).
I am also grateful to Sally from Spain—it’s good to know that people from the Iberian Peninsula are also concerned about the hideousness of my profile.
In addition to the nose comments, which are outnumbered only by the “Run away!” comments, I’ve been called “Amy Winehouse’s ugly sister,” “grotesque,” a “completely pointless bimbo,” and a “huge disservice” to “our gender.” Then there are the bunny-boiler remarks. Four at last count. Since when did “bunny-boiler” become the insult of choice? Evidently, I’m way behind on these things.
By the time Wednesday evening rolled around, I was so overwhelmed—not just by the comments but by all of the phone calls, emails and interview requests I’ve received in the wake of this whole thing—that when I called The Wedding Date to ask if he’d be okay with me sending a photo of the two of us to another news source, I totally broke down.
We’re talking tears… runny nose… sobbing into the phone… the whole nine yards.
Fortunately he was in the process of taking down his Star Wars-themed Christmas tree at the time and Star Wars always puts him a good mood (I’m pretty sure, in fact, that there was more playing-with-his-action-figures going on than putting-them-away) so when I started bawling over the fact that I didn’t want this whole “thing” to come between us, he assured me that it wouldn’t, that he was proud of me and that he supported me in all of my “bridezilla” glory, 100%.
On another positive note, I was so exhausted while driving to my brother’s new apartment to borrow a camera last night that I got lost (well, I’ll blame the exhaustion anyway… we all know my navigational prowess is subpar on a good day) and when I pulled over to try to regain my bearings, I FINALLY figured out how the use the GPS feature on my Droid.
It wasn’t actually that difficult.
Which brings me back to my earlier point: I’m not a bimbo. And I don’t need a man to “validate my existence” or, while we’re on the subject, to teach me how to use my GPS (although your comment on the subject did help, Zak). I’m well aware that what I’m about to say pertains primarily to women, and primarily to women of the heternormative paradigm, in which the so-called “wedding industrial complex” definitely plays a huge role, but who doesn’t like to play dress up? Who doesn’t like to daydream about their wedding?
- Do I Look Fat in this Dress? (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- Bridezillas – an exaggeration or reality? (paperlilyblog.wordpress.com)
- My Marie Claire Debut: What Every Man Wants to Hear (fieldworkinstilettos.com)