subject: I Am The Daughter Of Both My Father And My Mother [print this page] My feelings were more complicatedMy feelings were more complicated. I found myself approaching these discussions from a sense of deprivation. Though I wasn't interested in the details I had seen friends lose sleep over -- floral arrangements, party favors -- I felt cheated. I didn't want the typical wedding, couldn't visualize myself in a white Black PVC Front Open Unisex Leotard, walking down a long aisle. Nor could I imagine spending so much money on a single day. It felt frivolous and silly, an opinion shared by the echo chamber of men in my life: my fiance, my father, my brother. My father half-joked that we should have a Vegas quickie; clean, painless, with the bonus of a little Elvis. But I didn't see marrying as a novelty or a prank. Giving up the idea of a wedding, or worse, being made to feel silly for wanting one (despite my ambivalence), felt like another thing forfeited. If my mother had been around, there wouldn't have been any debate. ''No wedding?'' she would have said. ''Over my dead body.'' The suggestion of a dinner party of just our immediate families was met with a rush of tears. Mine, of course. ''Too few people,'' I said. ''Her absence will stick out.'' ''O.K.,'' my fiance said. ''More people,'' I said. ''We need more people. But. ... '' ''But what?'' ''Not too many.'' There was his family to consider also. We couldn't do it near them because our dollars were virtually worthless in London. Not to mention they were used to mega-scale Indian affairs: a ceremony at a Sikh gurdwara, a thousand strangers in a catering hall. I come from a tribe of New York Jews with its own traditions: 250 people, a raw bar during cocktail hour; later, chicken or beef or salmon. Once we had decided on a destination Black PVC Sexy Dress-- only the people who cared about seeing us marry would be there, his parents on board (after a little convincing), and my father excited -- we thought we were home free. The hotel gave us a checklist and little choice. We went with Option C pretty much across the board. Food, flowers, music, all decided in five minutes. Option C. When in doubt, I always chose Option C. After all, the same plan had worked quite well with my SATs. But the torture had only begun. We stumbled over the wording for the invitations. I am the daughter of Frederick Buxbaum and 'the late Elizabeth Buxbaum,' but those words seemed depressing. Excluding my mother felt like a misstatement: I am the daughter of both my father and my mother, regardless of the existential circumstances; including her, with or without the qualifier ''late,'' felt morbid. After more of my tears, we decided to forgo specificity. My father and my fiance's parents welcomed the guests ''to the marriage of their children.'' Sure, we sounded inbred, but at least we had hurdled yet another emotional booby trap. I feared that my fiance, who has put up with much mother-loss related neurosis from me over the years, was growing tired. But we weren't done, not by a long shot. There was the Black PVC Sexy Dress, the bridal shower and the question of how to honor my mother at the wedding. When my future mother-in-law visited, we began the dreaded costume zentai shopping. If she had let me, I would have gone for a black cocktail shift. My future mother-in-law, who is as close to a mother figure as I can now hope to have, and who couldn't be more lovely, was not on the same page. ''But you are the bride,'' she said, as if I were slightly deranged. How could I not want a pretty white costume zentai that made my hips look about the size of an army tank?
