I don’t hate marriage. I just hate what happens when the wrong people join the wrong family. I’m not married, and it wasn’t until I passed the approved age bracket that I realized how I actually never cared that much about being the blushing bride with legions of close girlfriends dutifully populating my wedding party.
As a young girl growing up in Nigeria, weddings were a huge deal. I used to love opening the White envelopes that contained the delicately fancy invitations with the fancier print. They arrived mostly during Christmastime and Easter because the festive seasons seemed to be the period when the adults were flexible enough to accommodate a full calendar of celebratory fare.
As you probably guessed, I not only attended a ton of weddings, I was also asked to play the role of flower girl and junior bridesmaid; and what I mostly remember about my career as servant to the brides, was how I couldn’t wait to take off the puffy gowns with the scratchy fabric.
Incidentally, I had to wait until later in adulthood to finally garner the honor of being a bridesmaid, in a gorgeous gown, cast in the most spectacular wedding I had ever seen. It was a childhood friend with wealthy parents, who were eager to fund an opulent production against the backdrop of L.A.’s most revered zip code.
