I hate weddings.

All kinds.

No matter whose they are.

I wish I could tell you that there was a deep seeded reason for this. Some childhood abandonment lurking in every dessert table corner. That I was always a bridesmaid, never a bride. That I had choked on a Jordan almond once and my life was forever altered.

None of the above. I just hate them. Plain and simple.

I don’t get what all the fuss is about, really.

I tried on exactly one dress when I got engaged, and the experience was enough to dig the jcrew catalog out of my purse, close my eyes and order the first dress my finger landed on.

No, really. It was mailed to my house the very next week, and I had it altered a few days before I walked down the aisle while eating a snickers and nearly fainting from boredom.

My now husband did all of the correspondence with the venue. Delicately picked out the orange Calla Lillies for my bouquet while I quietly wondered when would be the appropriate time to ask where we might be going to lunch.

I would rather swim in jellyfish infested waters than construct any semblance of a guest list.

I hate weddings so much, I left mine early.

You heard me correctly.

After being married for exactly one hour, while our guests were still seated at their firmly established (by my husband) place settings, I stifled a yawn and asked if we could get out of here already. And we did. Without even saying goodbye. We were halfway to our hotel before our guests were finished eating our cake.

I wish it were different for those I love, but I love them enough not to lie.

I don’t want to watch you pour different colored sand into something you are going to firmly deny looks exactly like an urn.

I don’t want to watch your prospective mother in law smile awkwardly at your mother as they each light candles like pre-pubescent altar boys at Sunday Mass.

I don’t want to catch your bouquet, navigate any single, middle-aged relative who is increasingly become too familiar with both the Cosmo fountain and the Cotton Eyed Joe. I don’t think your popcorn bar is cute, I don’t think your groomsmen’s purple Chuck’s are trendy and cumberbuns make me think about the bands I wore around my midsection during my pregnancy to keep my gigantic belly from crushing my bladder.

Before you flag me a pessimist, I want to be clear in that my issue is with the EVENT and not with the actual marital institution itself. I’m just not an event kinda girl. I’d rather invite you over for dinner after your honeymoon is over and you realize that he leaves his underwear in the kitchen of all places and she has to brush her teeth every time she has to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and it’s driving you nuts.

I’d much rather make your favorite meal, uncork a Rioja and laugh about how marriage was never what you thought it would be, and that’s ok. I’m more of an “after the event” kind of friend, and I’m more than ok with that.

There are a few exceptions, of course. I pushed through my social awkwardness to appreciate all the beauty that was my sister’s wedding. A friend of mine is getting married this summer and I can’t think of anyone more deserving of a giant celebration in their honor than her.

As for the rest? Don’t be offended if I politely decline a seat at a table with your 14th cousin, twice removed who breeds hamsters for a living but extend a standing dinner invite once a month. Just because I don’t want to throw birdseed in your hairspray doesn’t mean I’m not cheering on your marriage.

I just need to do it away from baby’s breath and bridezillas.