previous column
deadlyhippos home
next column

Always a ---------, never a ---------
10/19/05
by Shaw

The sun sets on a pristine day, the cloudless sky framing an orange haze that descends slowly into the Atlantic. I sit on the deck watching the Maker's finest watercolor palette, sipping a free cocktail, and savoring the smell of succulent filet mignon and fresh swordfish being prepared on an outdoor grill. The next generation of eminent society swarms around me, clad in tuxedos and long elegant dresses. Amongst them are their monarchs, the king garbed in the same pedestrian suit worn by his handlers, and his queen in a regal white gown shorn at the shoulders. These two stop to greet and receive congratulations at each table, and I have my turn, where I thank them for inviting me to the ceremony. When I say the words, I mean them, and in my soul I am happy. It dawns on me that I am lucky to be able to even spend a few hours in this place, clearly so far above my station.

In this way begins the familiar event with which I have been aqcuainted and reacquainted recently: the wedding reception. Invariably the evening starts off this way: a beautiful sunset at a mansion in a beautiful setting, while the bride and groom make their way through the crowd for a brief hello. And then things turn awful. For in the past two years, I have attended eight weddings, and of those eight, the final six were each attended stag by yours truly.

According to the Urban Dictionary:

Stag, n.

3. A socially accepted, cool way to say "I am a big loser who couldn't get a date, but need something shorter than this to answer peoples' question of 'Who are you going with?'"

"Who are you going with?"
"I'm going stag"
"Oh...what a loser."
"I know."

I embody this definition.

My jet-setting has taken me to eight different states:

The irony of this situation cannot be understated. I am an aging single man with a bleak outlook on life, no prospects, and a negligible income. Nor am I a fun person: I hate dancing, meeting new people, and celebrating the joy of others. And yet if I do anything consistently, it is be a dateless wedding guest. In these travels, if nothing else, I have learned that there is one universal truth, one overarching law that governs the universe and which God applies to all humans, ruling with an iron fist himself as lawmaker, chief executive, and chief justice:

If thou attendest a wedding alone, thou canst hope to enjoy dancing at the reception.

Unfortunately, as God does not exist in Hollywood, there is no need for films to reflect this universal truth, as Wedding Crashers and Four Weddings and a Funeral suggest that you are a sucker if you bring a date to a wedding at all. But this is what it looks like:

I should say that this photo was taken while the rest of the wedding party was on the floor ecstatically dancing to "We are family" or some such wedding dance song. I was resigned to sitting at the table holding the bouquet for my friend who caught it. I did not meet any women, nor did I even want to. Because what is distinctly more unfortunate is that no wedding actually ever features attractive single girls at all. As one DH staffer noted, "Ugly chicks go to weddings to get laid. They know guys go to drink and get laid. In fact, whenever an ugly girl is invited to a wedding the person who invited them feels sorry for them. At my wedding every ugly girl there was imported in the hopes of getting them laid. It's a buffet of drunk horny guys, none of whom they will probably see again. It's utopia for ugly chicks." When I saw this analysis I immediately decided I was glad that I never got drunk at any of these stag weddings: this idea sounded really scary to me, like a bunch of prowling hungry hyenas (unattractive women) sensing that their prey is wounded (desperate and drunk) and crawling all over them until they succumb. It's not for me.

Not that I am in the position to be picky: as I said before, I'm not fun and I don't enjoy dancing, and as you can see by the photo, I'm not winning any beauty contests. But the idea of my being used in this manner--as a stuffed animal for dry-humping--is terrifying. The position of being a male stag wedding guest is perhaps the least enviable possible. You are visibly desperate, alone, and pathetic. You are the lowest form of wedding guest. You are stag.

So why do I go to weddings at all? Why not just reject all invitations on the grounds that I am not a wedding guy? Do I just actually enjoy the other parts of the wedding ritual? The exchanging of the vows, the cutting of the cake, the best man speech, the tearful father of the bride, the proud father of the groom? Do I secretly hope that some day I will muster up the intestinal fortitude to get on the dance floor and show the crowd that while I may look white (true) I don't dance like a white guy (false)? [For more on this phenomenon see JT's second column] Or do I just want to go to show the bride and groom my support of their marriage?

The answer: three hours of free booze.

________________________

Discuss this and any other column deadlyhippos.com column at our message board.