Has the White Wedding had its day?

I don’t feel comfortable in white. I don’t believe it suits or flatters me. I don’t own anything white, I’m not drawn to anything white and I don’t experience pangs of longing when looking into bridal shop windows. I just don’t. I have no idea why and I certainly can’t blame my mother who looked nothing short of resplendent in her own floating, milk hued gown. I am however, a habitual wearer of black. I’m a black shoes, black socks, black pants and black shirt kind of girl and I feel good about that. Wearing black is to me about slipping on a shadowy skin that’s two parts rock and roll to one part streamlined professional. I’m comfortable with this projection.

Such a feeling has never been far from my heart and led me, I believe, to discover the perfect gown. Long, fitted, bejeweled and black as the dark night sky.

“Black is a funeral colour,” was the first gem of critique offered by my father upon word of my find.

“How are you going to explain this to your grandmother?” shortly followed.

“You will regret it if you don’t wear white,” came the advice of a friend. “Sarah Jessica Parker did.”

And so began the tumultuous debate. If I don’t wear white will I be resigned to the same fate as the girl who didn’t attend her school formal - will I miss out on some precious cornerstone of personal development? If I wear black will I offend? Raise eyebrows? Become unrecognisable as a bride? Will this somehow make the dawn of my marriage a lesser wedding? The insinuations are still rife.

What people don’t say and what may indeed be closer to the mark is, “how can I project my own memories, dreams and imaginings onto you if you don’t even look like a canvas?”

I haven’t yet bought the dress. Not because I’m scared of any of the above or because I’ve changed my mind but perhaps more to lengthen the suspense. Who knows, closer to the date I may experience a sudden wild desire for green, red or purple? What indeed, would be made of that?

Instead I’ve tried to distance myself from the dialogue, picking a quiet spot in the background from which to watch, occasionally throwing my companion and delightful fiancé a knowing glance. Deep down, beneath the froth and bubble we are what this really should be about.

We haven’t decided on “our song” yet … but that’s a whole other story.