Weddings turn otherwise reasonable adults into fascinating case studies. Something about an open bar, assigned seating, and two people promising forever makes certain guests forget every rule of society they have ever known. Today we convene the tribunal. The charges are many. The defendants are people we all know, and occasionally, people we have been.
First on the docket: the plus-one negotiator. The invitation said your name. Just your name, in lovely calligraphy that cost more than you know. Yet here you are, texting the bride three weeks out, asking if you can bring someone you matched with on Tuesday. The couple counted chairs. They negotiated with a caterer over per-head pricing like it was a hostage exchange. The answer is no, and it was always going to be no.
Next, the unofficial photographer. The couple hired a professional. That professional is currently being blocked from the aisle shot by a sea of raised phones, one of which belongs to an uncle filming in vertical mode with the flash on. When the ceremony says unplugged, it means you. The married couple would like photos of your face, not of your phone case covering your face.
The tribunal now reads further charges into the record: 1. Wearing white, ivory, cream, eggshell, or anything requiring a debate about whether it counts as white. 2. Giving a speech when no speech was scheduled for you. 3. Asking the DJ for your song more than twice. 4. Announcing your own engagement, pregnancy, or breakup during the reception. 5. Critiquing the food to anyone within earshot of the couple's mother. All of these carry sentences of group chat infamy.
A word on the RSVP delinquents, a quieter but devastating category. The card came with a stamped envelope. There was also a website. And a QR code. And two follow-up texts. Responding took less effort than most of your daily scrolling, and yet the couple spent their final planning week hunting you down like process servers. RSVP promptly. It is the single cheapest gift on the registry.
In fairness, the tribunal acknowledges the guests who get it right, because they deserve their flowers. The ones who dance to keep the floor alive during the slow hour. The ones who befriend the awkward cousin at their table. The ones who quietly fix the gift table when it starts to avalanche, hydrate the maid of honor, and leave the venue without a single incident attached to their name. You are the load-bearing guests. Weddings run on you.
The verdict, as always: a wedding is the rare event that is explicitly not about you, which is exactly what makes it so fun when you accept it. Show up on time, eat the chicken or the salmon without commentary, cry a little during the vows, and dance like your table is being graded. Do that, and you will be invited to every wedding for the rest of your life. Which is either a reward or a sentence, depending on your calendar.