Why Do You Care More About My Wedding Dress Than My Fiancé’s Suit?

I have had many ideas for my wedding attire, because from the day you get engaged, if you have tits and a vagina and identify at least roughly as female, you are (apparently) required to start generating ideas about your wedding attire.

That’s the only reason I’ve cared. The single and solitary one and only reason. On any day, if you asked me how long I thought about the outfit I’m wearing today, I’d say, “Long enough to check the weather forecast.” I have designed my closet to be full of clothes that all pretty much match each other so that I never have to think about what I’m wearing, because thinking about what I’m wearing feels like getting forehand-backhand slapped over and over and over for whatever length of time I have to think about what I’m wearing.

So imagine how it’s felt to have to think about what I’m wearing to my wedding since January 5th. It’s been six months. Six months of forehand-backhand slapping.

I did, at one point, go ahead and buy a black tulle skirt from Anthropologie and a black leotard to wear with it, and figured I was done. This, on its own, made waves: I was told how surprised people were that I was going to wear black to my own wedding. It was implied to me that I was trying to make a feminist statement or something. This is not so: I wanted to wear clothes that were comfortable and that wouldn’t show red wine stains. I also wear black almost every single day (see the whole thing above about everything matching). This seemed like a no-brainer to me, and I really and truly didn’t think it would ruffle anyone’s feathers because who cares, it’s just clothes, and I was wrong.

Now, though, the tulle skirt and leotard combo has been scrapped, because I buzzed off three-quarters of my hair specifically so that I could gender-switch more easily. I don’t really want to look like a ballerina at my wedding, and even if I did, with my hair the way it is, the whole outfit would look bizarre. So I’m back to agonizing and surfing through clothing websites trying to find something that’ll work.

I have to ask myself, Self, why am I agonizing? The answer is that I have had enough comments made about my wedding clothing choices that I’ve become concerned with sidestepping anyone’s concerns so that I don’t have to hear any more comments. That’s been a bust, too, though. One of my friends, when I said that the tulle skirt was out, laughed and said something snarky about me wearing something so feminine, as if it was something I couldn’t possibly ever pull off, as if she had thought all along that it was a ridiculous-looking choice for me (which like – what the hell?). And I mentioned to my fiancé that I may want to wear a short suit or pants or something other than a dress or skirt to our wedding, and he said he was uncomfortable with it, because I’m a woman and women wear skirts and dresses at their weddings. This made me shoot flame-lasers out of my eyes in his direction: When the fuck do I wear dresses in my day-to-day life? How are skirts, like, essential to the fact of being a woman? And can we talk about the fact that you know full well that you’re marrying someone who gender-switches and refers to herself as “roughly female”?

He admitted that he was thinking about what other people would say, too, and not about what would be comfortable for me, but only after saying that, you know, it’s his wedding too, and he’s a pretty conventional guy. So I’m supposed to meet him halfway with my attire, but, I noted, was he going to wear a sequin suit? Was he going to get tatted up beforehand? Was he going to wear a dress or even a kilt and meet me halfway?

Of course not, because let’s face it, nobody gives a hoot what the groom wears to a hetero wedding. Grooms show up in sloppy-looking, ill-fitting, rented suits, with bad haircuts that they got the day before (guys, NEVER DO THAT) and razor burn and cruddy nails and that’s just expected, no one says anything because no one cares how the groom looks, not really. Brides, though, we have to buy a virginally white and completely unpractical dress that we preen over for months, we have to get our hair professionally done, we have to get our faces professionally made up, we have to have our nails painted, all before we’re, you know, camera-ready and acceptably bride-ish.

I’m not saying that all of that stuff isn’t fun. I will be getting my hair and makeup done, for sure. I’m just saying that I would appreciate it if my friends and family gave as much of a shit about what my fiancé is going to wear to our wedding as they care about what I’m going to wear. I wish they had as many opinions about how he’s going to look in his suit as they do about how I’m going to look in my whatever.

I wish that he had to plan for months in advance. I wish that he was suffering right along with me, trying to decide what to do. I wish that he had been told, somewhere along the line, that because he had a penis he was required to wear something that he was uncomfortable wearing, and that he had had to stand up for himself over the stupid, nonsensical, pointless issue of what fabric he is draping over his body on a day that everyone claims is “his,” whether or not everyone in fact acts like it’s theirs, whether or not he is in fact going to be held to someone else’s standards, whether or not those standards make any goddamn sense to him.

But he’s not, so I’ll make it simple for myself: I’m wearing a grey short suit and a chiffon shirt. And fuck-all what anyone thinks about it.

[Image via Shutterstock]

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