Jessica Puente

I had the displeasure of attending a wedding this weekend.

My mother’s sister’s daughter’s daughter was to be wed in Anáhuac, Nuevo León. It is a quaint little war zone of a town filled with the smell of compliance and the best flour tortillas you can find.

Society is an important thing in the Mexican culture, particularly in small towns where everyone knows your name and how old you were when you stopped wetting the bed.

To the stores we go! Again and again. It took nearly a month to find the “perfect” dress, or at least one my mother wouldn’t be completely horrified seeing me in.

Hey if we’re going to get kidnapped by gangsters let’s at least look good.

I’ve never been a fan of weddings. I don’t like love and it doesn’t like me.

This wedding was particularly repulsive and filled with torrents of mushy traditions. Everything had their initials on it. The doors, the tables, the cake, the bubbles. I escaped to the restroom in hopes of finding some relief from the constant testimonials of love. But there were initials on the bathroom mirrors as a painful reminder that there was no escaping the night.

The first dance is a tradition I can live with. It is what it is. But then the sparklers started. Not joking.

My first thought after the initial shock subsided was, this is the most dangerous wedding I have ever sat through. And this was only the beginning.

The rest of the night took place like we were the audience of a fake and very bad American Idol. The band members took turns signing their hearts out. We even heard some opera! I thought it might have been a lucky break when the fat man started singing but the wedding trudged ahead.

There was a nice moment that I took in however. Stolen from that movie, I made sure to look at the groom when the bride walked into the church. If you haven’t done it and you’re stuck in the claws of a long-winded pastor and a choir that just won’t quit, be sure to have a glance at the groom. It isn’t often you get to see pure, shameless emotion like that.