Yeah, I got your Save The Date in the mail. And frankly, I'm really tired of this charade. You think you're the first person this wedding season to send me a Pinterest-inspired Save The Date that's complete with Kraft paper details and turquoise ribbon? Please. My refrigerator is reading like a week in, week out social calendar for me and all my friends. All these STDs are starting to feel more like detention slips than invites. If we aren't good enough friends that you're actually putting me in your wedding, then I'm not sure we're good enough friends for me to attend. It's summer and I've got golf to play.
First off, I hate the wedding date. Memorial Day Weekend? Fourth of July? Labor Day Weekend? Have you no shame? Have you no respect for the sanctity of the long weekend bestowed upon me by my job that I want to spend drinking on a pontoon boat as opposed to mingling with your second aunt at table 57 that doesn't even have a clear view of the wedding party? Let me live, guys. Let me have my holidays. Let me go on a bender. Let me be me.
I hate the location of your wedding. A destination wedding? Really? So you're either going to make me spend $1,200 on flights or make me feel like an asshole for declining the invite because I'm not yet responsible enough to save money for things like this. When I'm throwing out fun coupons at happy hour, the last thing that's going through my mind is "I shouldn't buy this round, one of my friends might get engaged this weekend and I'll have to fly to Cabo for the nuptials."
I hate your signature cocktail. Can't we just all enjoy an open bar like the old days? You can't legitimately tell me that you two sit around drinking blueberry-infused vodka mixed with mint and lime when you're at your apartment. You and I both know that I got invited to this wedding because the groom and I slam a high quantities of light beer on the golf course, not because we share a common love of mixology. Forcing me to ingest a cocktails that appeal to both 21-year-olds and grandmas alike is just flat out inconsiderate. I'm trying to have a champagne campaign that transitions into some top-shelf scotch once dinner ends, not drink the equivalent of an alcoholic melted Slurpee with frozen fruit in it. Is that so wrong? Am I asking that much?
I hate your hashtag. I hate that we can't just use your last names and we have to incorporate some type of pun that your bridesmaid jokingly came up with that you thought was legitimately a good idea. And furthermore, I hate that we're perpetuating that it's okay for the entire wedding to be on Instagram the entire time. The only electronic my parents had at their wedding was a video camera that couldn't move because it had to be constantly connected to a television in order to work. Rather than hashtagging on their phones, people were probably forced to have conversations and dance with one another.
I hate your decorations. You think you're the first person to use mason jars as votive holders? Those paper butterflies you made as name cards for everyone - are we sold on those being cool or are we going to regret them in a few years? Asking for you, not me. And this barn. Can we talk about this barn? What happened to the clean country club weddings that our grandparents had? I'll accept the abundance of Christmas lights everywhere even though it's mid-July, but that's just because Drake once talked about how cool "Christmas lights in the middle of summer" are.
And finally, I hate your wedding registry. Do you feel as awful receiving this toaster from me as I feel giving it to you? Are you going to think I'm an asshole if I get you something with a little thought put into it, or are you two going to be sitting around writing thank yous asking each other, "Why didn't he just get us something we asked for on our Crate & Barrel registry?" I'd rather cut you a check than buy you a Keurig. Don't make me feel like an asshole for trying to inject some feeling into this shindig, guys.
Best of luck to you both, though. I hope you have a happy life together.