Much has happened in the eighteen months since I last looked at the New York Times Weddings Section in any depth. For one, I’m not presently living in New York, although I miss it dearly and often. But sometimes, you need to take a rest from the city that never sleeps. Sometimes, those rests involve ten month long sojourns in universities an ocean away. The bars here don’t stay open as late, and I’m still not sure if I’ve left for all the reasons for which I once said I would. I soothe myself with the thought that I might go back.
At times of such uncertainty, and even when far away from the city which spawns the announcements, it’s nice to return to familiar routines. In my case, that means Sundays spent flicking through the wedding announcements, while firing up an old favourite singer on YouTube autoplay, and saying Hello, Again, to old friends. Yes, that’s this week’s listening.
Just as a proctologist begins work by examining a patient where the sun doesn’t shine any more, so our first wedding this week requires us to approach New York via Cornell. (For the analogically challenged, I’m pointing out that Ithaca is New York’s rectum.) And much as the “fifth lady” in Sex and the City was New York City, so, too, did the barren cold of upstate New York bring Mariloly Orozco and Michael Cases together. It was the classic story of a car getting stuck on an Ithaca incline, a cute “random” guy getting out to push the car, and then coincidentally showing up in all the same places as the beautiful damsel in distress. He remained “random” until her dog took a liking to the guy on a long hike one day. (Any excuse to get away from Ithaca?) It might not have been love at first sight for Mariloly, but she had the good sense to trust her Shiba Inu’s instincts. The best part of the story? Both bride and groom appear to have made it out of Ithaca, and now live in Manhattan.
The tech industry rightly gets a lot of stick – or, at least in my view, deserves a lot of stick – for its stated aim of “disruption” really just being a euphemism for “treat everyone like crap, cut costs, gouge profits and give the money to that guy who thinks the British should never have left India.” (See, for example, this Times Review piece this week.) Passive aggressive smoothie-drinkers in the Bay Area aren’t manna from heaven for snorting quinoa and maintaining a running habit while firing people and undercutting prices and killing the publishing industry. Still, even I must admit that some tech stuff has good consequences. For instance, I’ve not seen the son of a New York City Taxi Driver from Queens marrying a Barclays in-house lawyer (and get featured in the Section for it) before. A little disruption of class hierarchies is no bad thing. Thanks, Match.com!
Note: Tech industry, this doesn’t justify the other misdeeds. And Match.com, I still haven’t forgiven you for all the women who stood me up or made up suspicious stories to explain their absences, or never texted back after dinner at Bagatelle, or didn’t offer to pay for their drinks at Bathtub Gin as they extracted NYC’s bachelor tax from my paycheck and eviscerated my dignity. I’ve also not forgiven you for my still broken heart after things didn’t work out with that one girl with whom you said things would be perfect, according to the algorithm and our shared interests in the Babysitters Club. Or for making yourself such a big part of my life that I now write open letters on a basically defunct blog to a dating website as though it’s a person.
Finally in main weddings, this entry from April 1 is older than usual, but wonderful – and the story may just be an April Fool’s prank played by Yale on the rest of us. The couple was first in the same room in a 1978 screening of Love Story. (Not just a Taylor Swift song. Who knew?) They reconnected at a Harvard alumni event, after which they went to drinks at the wonderful Royalton Hotel, and then fell in love. She wondered if MIT Professors moonlighted as Harvard tour guides. His proposal matched the one in the movie. They married at the Harvard Club, under a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt. Was her garter crimson? Did he urinate on a statue to prove his virility? Will their mating rituals involve personal reenactments of primal scream in their yard? So. Many. Questions.
Still, as they try to answer these questions, at least they have the “fact that [they] went to Harvard together as the ballast to keep [them] steady.” It could be worse. Imagine what their ballast would have been had they gone to Princeton – or, for that matter, Oxford.
- This may be the most imbalanced gay wedding announcement ever. Curt Sowers, I want to know so much more about you than your parents’ names. Are you a part-time playwright or musician, too? Do you merely own the hair salon, or do you style, too? What are your religious persuasions? How much hair do I need to lose from my crown before it’s worth shaving it all off? Is 35 too young to be 50% grey? I’m hoping to keep it at that, but I might not be so lucky.
- Best facial hair and meeting story goes to these chaps. Burning Man communities are the new bingo nights. It’s great that one of their mothers is named Magnolia, after the cupcake boutique, too.
- It’d be remiss of me not to mention the wedding that had top billing this week, a story of two real estate agents with interests in show tunes. It’s fabulous and wonderful. I have nothing snarky to say about it.
That’s about it for this edition. Clearly it’s not full weddings season yet, or else there’d be more material. I also wonder if the section is being more discriminating, with fewer big spreads. We should know more by September Morn.
To those who’ve borne the Neil Diamond songs while reading this self-indulgent effulgence, I’m sorry. And here’s Will Ferrell parodying him, as a treat. You’re welcome.
That’s all. XOXO.