Bridalplasty. If you haven’t seen this show yet, and you love trashy television, stop everything you are doing. Buy season one on iTunes, watch all ten hours of it, and then cry because there isn’t a second season. Well, it’s probably best that Bridalplasty wasn’t given a second season, because it is pure gilded trash.
At the height of the reality TV show golden age, when the producers were drunk on power, some evil genius pitched this beautiful train wreck. It has everything.
Reality TV star with waning popularity as host: CHECK.
Brides, doing bridal things: yup.
Body shaming, immediately fixed by a creepy plastic surgeon: 100%
GORY SURGERY FOOTAGE: YAAAAS
Negative portrayal of women: Absolutely.
I rage watched this show the first time I tried to plan my wedding. It was everything I needed to feel ok about not wanting anything remotely traditional about my “special day.” Before I finished the show, I felt like I had to comply with tradition. I thought I needed to have a bridal party, and a theme, and care about what plates the food was going to be served on. I even convinced myself to go wedding dress shopping.
It did not end in happy tears. The dresses I wanted weren’t “bridal enough,” they weren’t floor length, and I refused to try on veils. I felt like I was disappointing everyone around me because this was something that I just did not enjoy. Brides magazine was mysteriously sent to my house (I still don’t know why, I never subscribed), and I would last maybe five minutes before I started to angry cry. My fiancée would come home, see the magazine, and just know that he was going to spend the next hour listening to a tirade on the atrocities of capitalism. Eventually, I decided to stop planning my wedding all together.
We did not break off the engagement, or decide not to have a wedding. I just decided to stop planning it. I could not have a positive experience with the process. I didn’t want to be a princess, and I definitely did not want to be the center of attention. I wanted to continue living my life with my partner, just as we had been doing for the last eight years. In my mind, our “marriage” started long before we even got engaged. Every celebration, every milestone, every argument, every difficult conversation, every time we decided to stay, those were our vows to one another.
So, instead of planning a wedding, I watched a reality show where women compete for plastic surgery and a “celebrity” wedding. Each challenge winner chooses from her wish list of procedures, and is granted a full two weeks of immunity. You know, because she was recovering from major surgery. The bride who was voted out of the house is sent on her way by Travis Barker’s ex-wife, who would muster up her best condescending face and say “Your wedding will still go on, it just may not be perfect.”
What! Why? Imperfect because of that tummy-tuck you really should’ve had before the wedding? Imperfect because you don’t get to have the same florist as Giuliana Rancic? Every frustration I had about the wedding industrial complex, I was able to hurl at the TV. I was able to watch the distilled absurdity of wedding planning. I finally felt like I was justified; I no longer had to pretend to be excited.
Eventually we went on with it, but in a way that I felt comfortable with. I cut all my hair off, even though people told me I should wait until after the wedding. I bought my dress online without consulting anyone. I handed over decoration and food planning to my grandmother (she was a saint for listening when I said “no” to everything remotely wedding like). We got a friend to officiate. We didn’t rehearse our ceremony. There were no first dances. It wasn’t “perfect” by Bridalplasty standards, but it was great.
So thank you, Bridalplasty, you gorgeous abomination.