I’ve got wedding coming out of my ears. And when I look forward to working out twice a day just as a reprieve from talking/planning/blah about wedding stuff…you know the situation is grim.

It’s such an odd dichotomy. While this wedding is something that every fiber in my body cannot wait for, at the same time it haunts every waking hour of my existence, increasing moreso with each successive day.

One thing I’ve come to realize during it all is just how much of an inner chick I have raging inside. Normally, it’s status quo for brides to be raving lunatics, scrutinizing over ever little detail (the recent term “bridezilla” still cracks me up). While neither the fiancé nor I are that type, I have definitely channeled the inner woman inside me. And I’m actually OK with that. Well, kinda.

See, in high school, I was always ribbed for being the “artsy” type. Which is funny, see, because there were a grand total of 2 art classes at our school. It’s not as if I was walking around in a beret or sporting a mohawk. Our beloved college prep school bred doctors, lawyers and investment bankers. And God forbid if you *had* to be “artistic,” it wouldn’t be too embarrassing to be an architect. ‘Cuz at least that uses math. And your grandmother wouldn’t be humiliated if you used math.

But somehow, the Cult of Science that was my friends decided that I was the arty squire, the court jester who could never apply himself seriously to science or math. Therefore, I was constantly teased about my arty views and inclinations. Thank God my friends didn’t go to college with me. They would have exploded at the notion of carrying a sketch diary with me everywhere for 4 years. God forbid.

Well anyway, it still doesn’t occur to me that often that I’m supposedly “different.” I’m just, well, me. (profound, no?) But apparently all of the florists, wedding coordinators, cake decorators and mother-in-laws in the universe have never seen a man with an aesthetic clue. Because in the past 13 months, more times than I can count, I’ve been looked at as if I had some flesh-eating disease eroding my face off, simply for having an opinion on the wedding.

We’ve developed a sort of routine now, the fiancé and I have. We go into meetings where the person in charge addresses her and her alone (or her mother, if she’s there). No eye contact is made toward me, and all pronouns used are of the female context. To them, I’m sure this is standard. They go through routine questions about the event day, in some saccharine-sweet faux motherly voice, turned exclusively to the women in the room. However, if I chime in…be it about wanting silver chargers on the tables, an odd number of votive candles, or preferring ruffled white linens on the cake table to mirror the “organic feel of the cake design,” most are rendered speechless. Most vendors think I’m kidding, until they see that I’m not laughing. I suppose they interpreted my previous silence as the admitted “being dragged along” syndrome of most males. But my comments somehow wreak havoc on the cosmically established balance of power.

And then we all blink at each other.

The fiancé then tries to ease the uncomfortable nature of the moment by offering the “oh, well he’s the artist” excuse. And as if the admittance of the retarded cousin’s condition was a relief, there’s a round of chuckles to be had and we move forward, everyone still ill at ease with what’s transpired.

As I’ve learned to see myself through other people’s eyes a bit more recently, I’ve also come to realize a few tricks of the trade. So for those men out there eventually getting married, here are a few dos-and-don’ts for your engagement experience:

• If you’re going to have an opinion on one thing, you *must* have an opinion on everything. And by everything, I mean be prepared to give a crap about whether the cocktail chairs near the smoking section have chair covers and sashes on them. All or nothing, pal.
• If you care about [insert: cake/invitations/flowers/dresses/etc], be prepared to feel completely emasculated, and you will probably see the look of doubt flash across someone’s face of, “oh no, I think he’s gay and she just doesn’t know it yet!” You’ll get over it after a few months. The pain wears off.
• There’s no humor in wedding planning. Do not joke that you’re going to get an all white tux, or a top hat, or worse yet, request all hardcore rap at the reception. Planning a wedding actually involves all persons of the female gender to have their funny bones removed, and replaced instead with the crazy bone. Don’t laugh man, it’s not funny.
• If you’re going to stand up against [fiancé/mother-in-law] for something, be prepared to be treated like a chick. Stage 1 is the cold shoulder treatment. Stage 2 is the guilt-trip from hell. Stage 3 is an attitude that rivals any diva, including Aretha. You’ve angered the gods of matrimony, and you shall pay. Prepare to be smote, fool.
• Gay men are cute. Straight men that care about the height of floral arrangements and the reflectivity of the vases that they’re placed in are not. This, however, should not come as a shock.
• Finally, if you are either stupid enough to want to be involved, or deluded enough to actually ask to be involved, be ready for your entire life to be transformed. You’ve heard stories about brides who have scrapbooks 10-feet tall that they’ve been filling since age 2 and a list of bridal shows a mile long to attend…yea, well welcome to your new life pal. Might as well get “OWNED” tattooed on your forehead, because you’ve just sold your soul and signed over the next however many months of your life to indentured servitude.

All in all, I’m trying to maintain a sense of humor (there are spare funny bones laying around these days you know). Come October 15, if there is a subtle visual continuity that flows from invitation to ceremony to reception, I’m happy. I’ve worked really hard to maintain control over the look and feel of this event, much to the dismay of others. But not my fiancé. She is not like this at all. It’s others involved that are.

I guess she just feels sorry for the retarded cousin and his autistic artistic ways.