Wedding Guest Fatigue
Getting married is up there with buying a house or, rather ironically, getting divorced in terms of the stress levels involved. There’s just so much to do, so much that could potentially go wrong and so much expense involved that it’s really little wonder that hardly anything competes with it. Except perhaps the utter mental and physical exhaustion which comes from being a serial wedding guest.
Yawning means more room for canapes
Come next weekend I will have attended six weddings since January and three in just over a month. At this point, I’d like to make clear how grateful I am for the hospitality of each of the happy couples involved; I was treated to wonderful food, drink and entertainment at each of them. But I am tired. So very tired. And it’s all of your faults.
The stress of the guest can begin a long time before the wedding itself. If you are “lucky” enough, you might be invited to a stag or hen do, and if you’re even “luckier” you might get to organise it! Now, nothing comes close to the pressure of organising someone’s send off: it has to be pitch-perfect and fitted precisely to the personality of the bride or groom, regardless of whether or not they themselves have a personality.
Thankfully, things are far easier for blokes. From my experience, the awkwardness of men from up to four different generations and infinite social backgrounds trying to find something in common, whilst enjoying some form of theme or activity, disappears immediately around the third or fourth round. Yes, it’s a cliche, but that is because it is also completely and utterly true. However, for the organiser, the stress is there throughout the entire event. Is the groom having a good time? Is he drunk enough yet? Is he too drunk? Did I remember to confiscate his phone to avoid any embarrassing text messages? Oh god, where is he? Did we leave him in the last place? I’ll give him a ring. Ah, I really shouldn’t have taken his phone…
There then follows a reprieve of a few months where you’re likely to forget all about the upcoming wedding and begin to wonder precisely why you spent the equivalent of a mini-break to Paris on a weekend drinking cider in the West Country. You can of course choose to divert yourself by looking at what lavish gift you might choose from The List, and then just grab any old picture frame from Argos.
Suddenly, without warning the big day is upon you, mere days away. The frantic dash to buy cheap train tickets or cadge a lift and then the inevitable early morning to journey to the back of beyond for the ceremony, since nobody actually lives anywhere near the place they choose to get married in anymore. Arriving late into a train station called Meep or Thurlington-With-Stanley-by-the-Naze you take the lone taxi to your hotel, a last minute bargain run by Lurch from the Addams’ family’s less urbane cousin. Dumping your bags and hurling yourself back into Big Geoff’s cab, the next thing you know you’re sat awkwardly close to the front of the church, in front of what appears to be the bride’s brother and young family who are scowling at you.
The service itself, with its obscure hymns, apologetic singing, screaming children and appalling organist is light relief. If you’re smart, this is the point to grab forty winks. Close your eyes and people will just think you look really holy, that or they’ll be too embarrassed to say something to you about your being asleep.
This next bit is always fine. Not exciting, not joyous, just fine, since basically once the wedding itself is over everyone just treads water until the speeches. These can come before (really, what is THAT about?) or after the meal, which is always a reliable disappointment. Unless you are sitting on the top table your meal will be cold and bear no resemblance to the one served to the newlyweds. Just look on it as ballast.
As you force a dry profiterole down your gullet, the best man takes to his feet. He looks scared. His hands are shaking as he fumbles for his cue cards which he promptly drops on the floor, but to his credit he recovers and delivers a passable attempt at a speech. As the wedding guest, your role is simple: laugh. Laugh at whatever he says and help the poor guy get sat down again as soon as possible. If you managed to catch a nap in church earlier, the extra energy may well pay off here in producing some really enthusiastic guffaws to take the heat off him.
You’re on the home straight. Dinner and speeches done, all that’s left is the entertainment. You have two options: go with it and find something to enjoy in the ceilidh/line dancing/ disco fandango, or hang out at the bar and drink through it. Having tried both, the first option is definitely preferable as, although it may leave you looking like a chump, there is still the element of doubt as to whether you actually are one.
At the bar, gradually losing your grip on sobriety, your chat will suffer, and having to answer “that question” about what you’ve been up to since university could end in either tears or a brawl. Suck it up and dance. It won’t be long until bedtime and the long train/car journey home with your melancholy hangover to look forward to.
But the Wedding Season continues its relentless, cash-sapping, march. Not the one that starts in Spring and runs through to September but rather the one that starts at 25 and runs to roughly the age of 37. These are the weddings you’ve all been looking forward to for so long; these are the weddings that are going to kill you.
And I’ve still got one more to come this month. Uurgh.
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