The Hidden Costs of Weddings

You’re engaged? Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.

Really.

Although—and don’t take this the wrong way—I’ve heard that weddings are kind of expensive? Lots of hidden costs?

Like, to hire that converted barn for the ceremony—you know, the one upstate that hasn’t housed an animal in a hundred years? That’ll set you back ten grand just for the afternoon. But to also book the nearby Muppets-themed miniature-golf course for the same afternoon so that you can, in good conscience, tell your partner that it’s unavailable? Another three thousand.

And it ain’t easy being green—it’s also not cheap. Paperless invites are a start, but to throw a truly sustainable wedding you’ll need to plant a handful of trees to offset travel emissions for each out-of-town guest. A small grove if anyone flies in from overseas. Pretty soon, you’ll be looking at an additional eight thousand on saplings and labor, just to insure that the weekend is completely carbon-neutral.

That’s a lot.

Although it pales in comparison to what it will cost to make the event politically neutral. Contribution limits help, but still, donating to every campaigning politician is gonna burn a hole in your wallet as well as your morals.

And how much will it cost to make the bathrooms gender-neutral? Actually, that won’t cost a thing. Unless you find yourself seated within earshot of Uncle Len—then it’ll cost you your whole evening.

Of course, you could invite Uncle Len to d.j. the reception, in which case he’ll be too distracted by the task at hand to take issue with your “performative bathroom wokeness.” And you’ll also save on hiring an actual d.j.—a not-insignificant sum—although you will have to weigh this against the considerable risks associated with passing Uncle Len the aux cord.

Focus on the positives! Such as, how cool are champagne towers? Very cool! And the best bit? They work just as well with Mountain Dew as they do with Dom Pérignon—or should I say they photograph just as well. That’s kind of the same thing. All up, twenty bucks for a centerpiece that will dominate your guests’ Instagram stories is quite compelling.

Far more compelling than your m.c., a friend of a friend, whose name is Kane, and whose only qualification is his unchecked extroversion. Yes, you’ll save a couple hundred by not hiring a professional, but your cut-price host is about to alienate (in this order) your religious extended family, your partner’s mom, all women everywhere, all pet owners everywhere, all women again, the young, the old, the middle-aged, the yet-to-be-born, the deceased, Nascar fans (weirdly), your religious extended family again, and himself.

You might invite your Gen Z cousins in an attempt to get the party hopping. But rather than turn up with pockets full of the newest party drugs, as you’d hoped, they’ll arrive sober—vaping at best—and full of questions about more than just your decorating choices. Why even get married? When did you become such a normie? Why do you feel compelled to perpetuate these dusty, heteronormative institutions? You really wanna go all in on monogamy?

You tell yourself that it will all be worth it for the registry. You drink. You dance. At some point, you pass out.

You wake up the following day, broke, hungover, and with a faint memory of having danced an Irish jig while Uncle Len blared “Come On Eileen” at full volume, for the third time. And yet you are hopeful. You check the registry—a single Italian appliance or French cast-iron pan would provide adequate consolation. But you quickly see that, although you will never want for coat hangers again, the Smeg fridge and the Le Creuset Dutch oven have gone untouched.

Still engaged? Commiserations. ♦