Did you know you can’t wear black to a wedding? Me neither. According to tradition, wearing black to a wedding means you are expressing your disapproval of the union, but you don’t even have a moment when the celebrant asks if anyone in the room knows of any legal impediment to why these two shouldn’t enter into holy matrimony. Well, in movies the celebrant always asks that, but I felt short-changed when I started going to real weddings and there was no such drama.

I wore black to at least 10 weddings before I realized I should only have worn it to funerals. And then I kept wearing black to weddings because if I have one toxic trait, it’s that I think wedding culture is crazy. Of course, I didn’t object to the unions I’ve been a part of (well, not many anyway), but of the many facets of the wedding industry that I find confusing, the overly-charged dress codes top the list.

Not wearing white to a wedding is a given. Even I, a skeptic, can understand that competing with the bride on the big day is a major faux pas. I mean, the idea that a guest could be mistaken for the bride or somehow overshadow her seems slightly hysterical – both in terms of humor and neurosis – but I can admit that the only one looking virginal should be you. As a woman raised to believe that black is the only color you look presentable in, you’re going to take my comfy, shade-colored jumpsuit from my cold, dead hands.

I was also new to the idea of ​​avoiding red, as it makes you look like a whore or could somehow distract attention from the happy couple. To this I ask: we’re already at your wedding; how much more attention do you need? I think it’s crazy that couples getting married are treated like untouchable royalty for celebrating something that is essentially an arbitrary decision.

One only has to spend a moment on the internet to realise how powerful wedding culture is and how quickly the special day can spiral out of control. The emphasis on perfection and adoration can bring out the worst in people. There are anecdotes about an old aunt who was shunned because she was comfortable in a cream suit. A seven-year-old autistic ring bearer was fired because the bride didn’t want his Spider-Man costume – the only thing that satisfied him – in her wedding photos. I’ve seen invitations where guests are forbidden from wearing a whole rainbow of colours lest they distract focus from the bridal party’s palette. Is this a wedding or a performance?

A new trend has emerged: to impress guests and surprise her new husband, a bride is whisked away in the middle of the reception and comes back with a brand new, shorter haircut. A friend who works in the wedding industry confirmed that the trend has caught on with us too. Who among us hasn’t watched the Late Late Toy Show as a kid and regretted never joining the Billie Barry Kids? I’m afraid it’s the brides with haircuts who have never quite gotten over that feeling.

“Haircut brides” is misogynistic, and when I talk about weddings, misogyny alarm bells go off in my head. Then I remember that wedding ceremonies are based on the exchange of women like property, that marriage is bizarrely sold to women as an achievement, and that all of this is taking place in the midst of late capitalism and a billion-dollar industry that feeds off the stories told to little girls, and I give myself a break.

There are pre-wedding weight loss plans, skincare routines, and hair “journeys.” There are special wedding lingerie that could pay for a down payment on a house. There are bachelorette and bachelorette parties that end in resentment, arguments, and debt. I’ve seen friendships fall apart because of too high wedding expectations. I’ve heard couples talk to their guests about how much money they made from their guests. I’ve experienced homophobic sermons in front of beloved LGBTQI+ family members, although thankfully more and more couples are choosing not to get married in church if they are not practicing members.

I have also experienced true excitement, joy and friendship. I have cried and laughed with the happiest couples and rejoiced in their special days. The best days were the ones when it didn’t really matter what people wore, how everything looked and how much money was in the envelopes. And I wore black every single day.