At first I wasn't going to blog this even though it made my blood boil, but then a connecting article surfaced in the Times.
First, from the New Yorker coverage of the book launch party for Galt Niederhoffer's The Romantics:
“In a way, my book party is my wedding,” Niederhoffer said. “This is a better thing to aspire to, isn’t it? To be celebrated for your intelligence and your talent, rather than for your size-two beauty.”
Um, Galt, honey? My wedding was a celebration of the joining of two lives, the creation of a new family, of love and hope and good wishes. I wanted to look nice, because I was going to have my picture taken a lot and I generally do try to look nice, especially at dress-up occasions; but I didn't think my appearance was the centerpiece of the event.
I certainly didn't expect to perfect my bridesmaids' appearances:
"For Ms. Knauer, who will be married in December, cosmetic interventions for herself and her entourage are as vital as the centerpieces or food. 'If I were 25 or 26 and getting married, a bracelet, necklace or matching earrings would be fine,' she said."
It's Botox for You, Dear Bridesmaids
All I asked was that they wear identical lavender moire dresses, and even for that I am now sorry. My mother tried to get me to consider letting them choose their own dresses, but I was only the second one of my friends to get married, and it was hard to think outside the box.
As if to show that things can always get more nightmarish, the article ends with one woman's attempts to get rid of her mother's and future mother-in-law's crows' feet. *Shudder*
Am I overreacting to this?