I do... have a cure for wedding fever

While watching “Annie” at 10:30 on a Sunday night…
Ashley: “Of course the help in this movie is a Chinaman.”
Me: “Well yeah, this takes place back when it was socially acceptable to call them ‘Chinamen’.”
Ashley: “Is it not okay to call them ‘Chinamen’ now?! He’s a man…from China.” (completely sincere)
Me: “Jesus Ashley, that’s like calling Native Americans ‘injuns’.”

My roommate Ashley clearly has a lot to learn about political correctness, though she is entirely unwilling to do so. She is bright, driven, and responsible in every way, save for her decisions involving men, but that’s another entry entirely (“…that’s what she said”). She lacks a very specific component of the human brain that prevents archaic terms like “Chinamen” from being spoken aloud. She simply says what she wants, when she wants, and doesn’t give a shit who hears it. She’s like the foul-mouthed grandmother everyone puts up with because she’s on her fifth “last Christmas.” Anyway, this little exchange tonight got me thinking about the things we could learn from other cultures. Before you stop reading, you should know that this does not contain a heartwarming message about cultural acceptance…there will be harsh generalizations that will surely offend a few people, so bear with me.

I went to five weddings this summer. Five. They were each a lot of fun and I love all of my married friends dearly, but I can’t help but wonder if 23 is just too young to commit oneself to another person for the rest of his or her natural life. I can’t even commit to the same desk in my Econ class every day, much less another person with feelings and wants and needs and possibly credit problems. Yet for some reason, girls are entering their early twenties in a dead sprint to the altar. I have a solution to this problem, and it’s inspired by a tradition from our friends south of the border…the quinceanera.

In case you’re one of those mouth-breathers who slept through Spanish class all through high school, a quinceanera is a coming-of-age ritual in Hispanic cultures where a girl celebrates her fifteenth birthday by wearing a fancy dress and having a lavish party in her honor. Her family and friends are there, and there is music and dancing and food and drink for all to enjoy while showering said girl with attention and praise.

My solution to underage wedding fever, if you haven’t guessed by now, is to have a similar rite of passage for American women on their 23rd birthdays. However, instead of a sexed up “sweet 16” party, this ritual is an actual wedding—without the legal commitment. You see, my theory on why many women take the plunge so young is that they just want a wedding, not a lifelong commitment to some fucktard they met at a bar in college. They want the white dress, the expensive cake, the Target gift registry, the right to be a heinous bitch to their friends for months, and one night where they are the center of attention. That’s why I propose (pun intended) that every woman be allowed to have a fake wedding at age 23. She can have all the trappings of a wedding without actually marrying anyone, which would allow her to continue her twenties without the stress of hunting for a ring by clawing other women to death like feral cats.

Obviously, in order for this to work, some minor details need to be ironed out, such as—oh I don’t know—a groom. This is actually rather simple…hire a paid actor to stand in as her husband-to-be. He would be exactly like a male stripper in every way, except he’d keep his clothes on and wouldn’t act like a coked out frat boy in front of her grandparents. There could be legitimate businesses based on renting out grooms for these fake weddings—catalogs, referral rates, security deposits, you name it! The groom would be the sort of detail you’d take care of in twenty minutes, and could easily be booked online.

If all young women had fake weddings, they would get the wedding fever out of their systems, thus reducing the likelihood of jumping head first into a real marriage without thinking past bridesmaids and bouquets. Because once the honeymoon is over, ladies, you’re not special anymore, you’re just married. So let’s at least consider adopting our own version of the quinceanera, thereby saving the youth of America from rushing into a marriage and ultimately contributing to our nation’s sky-high divorce rate. ¿Comprende?