It seems like every time I have lunch with my mom, we have the following conversation:

MOM: (after a thoughtful silence) So…
ME: (while eating) Mmhmm?
MOM: So, is he….the one?
ME: (still eating, somewhat muffled) what?
MOM: Have you discussed the “M” word?
ME: (after a pause, uncomfortably) Well, I guess…
MOM: (bursts into tears)

She’s not crying because she doesn’t like my significant other, quite to the contrary. She is crying because she realizes that marriage is another step towards adulthood and away from any pretenses that I am still a virgin.

I get uncomfortable during this conversation not because I am uncomfortable at the prospect of marriage but because I’m uncomfortable with the pomp and circumstance implied by the whole dress-cake-church-crying parents to-do. A big wedding is something that popular culture tells us that women have been dreaming about since they were little girls, but every time I think about having to put all that time, money and effort into one day, I get unpleasantly itchy.

The truth is, I am sort of engaged, but I haven’t told my mom yet. I don’t want my huge southern family losing their collective sh*t or making a big thing out of it, I also really don’t want to have the you-don’t-need-a-grossly-expensive-ring-to-be-engaged conversation, but mostly I don’t want to have to deal with my mother’s shock and total dismay when I tell her about the wedding plans we’ve made (and I use the terms “wedding” “plans” and “made” very loosely).

We are eloping. To Oregon. To get married at a doughnut shop. Read More »