I have nothing against love, not even against marriage. Especially since this became a civilized country with divorce, because, as Woody Allen said, there are marriages that end well, but there are those that last a lifetime. This extraordinary tolerance on my part does not prevent me from dreading like typhus two of the events in which spring is prodigal: bachelor parties and weddings.
I belong to a generation in which nuptial affairs, beyond those practiced in the thalamus, inspire as much enthusiasm as a bidet: the freedom associated with the early years of democracy not only gifted us with unforgettable images of Nadiuska and Susana Estrada . It also facilitated something akin to free love, which we badly needed, and the possibility of mating as many times as needed without going through the sacristy or the tedious process of a smelly wedding invitation of mothballs As you will understand, at the time a bachelor party that went beyond stopping by Zeleste or Karma and having a few beers listening to Sisa with four friends was a laughable anachronism.
However, in clear proof that this progress can only be applied to technology, these celebrations live a moment of splendor. You must have seen the groups of drunks running around the city practicing strange gymnasiums, wearing penis-shaped headbands, wearing t-shirts with witty phrases like “La que no cardi que no entertaine” and I’m sure you know what I mean. Some even come from abroad, and then you just have to ask what our authorities are doing to prevent these new barbaric invasions.
Another thing are weddings in the strict sense, celebrations that have gone so far that those who receive an invitation nowadays can only experience a deep restlessness. Weddings have mutated into parties of inordinate duration that start at five in the afternoon and end at the wee hours of the morning and are held in supposedly picturesque locations that you have to drive to, depriving even the solace of catch a good monkey – the only way to last until the end.
Added to all of this is an inexplicably formal dress code – even more so on days of full-on Catalan heatwave – which implies that male guests have to dress like Mormon missionaries or funeral directors and sweat like chickens. Making this line they will have to attend the strange rituals designed by some expert in protocol who have received a letter of naturalization in Spanish weddings. I don’t know where the habit of howling by waving napkins in unison comes from, but you will agree with me that its inventor deserves a place in one of the circles of hell.
Add to this the new trend in the matter of gifts consisting of making a deposit in the account number that appears indicated on the invitation itself. It is natural that the old custom of the wedding list in a department store has passed into history. Today, people who get married usually have been living together for years and already have their own coffee maker and ceramic andromedas, but calculating the correct sum to hand over becomes a real ordeal. And unless a brother or a son is getting married, it is not a question of having to choose between the summer holidays or attending the wedding of a second cousin.
You won’t deny that the deposit into the account is as cold as any commercial transaction, and that, even if it avoids the delivery of an envelope of money that was powerfully reminiscent of Connie’s link in the first part of The Godfather, it involves a monetization of personal relationships a bit offensive. To the point that a culture has been generated in the matter by which it is assumed that, at the very least, the guest must finance the price of the shed that will be served. In fact, some go so far as to call the restaurant to fine-tune the amount even more and it all ends up looking like some kind of business in which the newlyweds not only don’t invite anyone, but will leave the banquet with more money than they entered.
I end up thinking that the progressives of the eighties were absolutely right, and that whoever wants to get married should go discreetly to one of those chapels with priests dressed as Elvis Presley that abound in Las Vegas. And send a postcard.
