It’s not uncommon for couples in Australia to re-mortgage their homes or take out ridiculous, interest-laden loans to pay for that “dream wedding”. To me, that is just absurd and, to be honest, really bloody stupid. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely aspects of my wedding that are somewhat unnecessary; the pull of this multi-billion dollar industry is something even I succumbed to.
After all, there are people out there that prey on women like ivory poachers, selling every goddamn bell and whistle that could earn them an extra buck from their big day. ‘A monstrosity of sugar and flour? That will be $1500 thank you.’
But what is it about the female brain that has the ability to justify these exorbitant and outrageous costs for one day, yet when it comes to investing, it’s like ‘nup, not going there’?
Let’s look at this logically – we will spend hours scrolling through Google for the perfect seasonal flower that’s imported from South America because we couldn’t possibly have anything local, and a gown without French lace is a concession we’re just not willing to make; BUT researching shares, high-interest accounts, managed funds and comparing insurance is just annoying. How does that make any sense?
Listen: How do you plan your wedding without selling a kidney to pay for it? Mamamia’s wedding podcast, Hitched, is here to help.
When it came to my turn, my ‘dream day’, for a short moment, I fell into the wedding trap — and I fell hard! Like a drug addict relapsing, I found myself justifying Every. Single. Frill. It started at one of those over-the-top bridal shows in Brisbane. I went with a friend who had been planning her wedding since forever and not one to shy away from a competition I felt desperately behind on the appropriate bridal behaviour and bible. She knew every flower, frill, cake-type, paper gsm, chair names and rituals. I knew absolutely nothing and felt but a mere mortal in a planet of overzealous brides.
As soon as we walked into the convention hall, I was thrown down the rabbit hole and landed on what felt like the trading floor at the NYSE, but way more dangerous. There were women screaming, shrieking and selling. Selling for their lives. These women were good. So good that I almost bought one of everything. By the end of our round trip across the bridal trading floor, I needed a sweat towel, huge glass of cold vino and quite possibly a lobotomy to forget the whole experience.
This is where my smart brain and possibly my stubborn nature kicked in and refused to be sold to; I refused to relapse into spontaneous and superfluous shopping. I felt liberated and pretty proud of myself for saying ‘No’ to the wedding industry and all the over-spending that came with it. But what did this mean? Does this mean I don’t want a wedding? Was I a terrible bride?