Chris Faraone Runs With The Brides

Anyone who suspects that marriage is the most barbaric of all American rituals should continue reading. But if you’re one of those dips who think it’s acceptable for women to behave like cliché “bridezilla” twits from the proposal to the honeymoon, then I suggest you begin writing nasty comments now.

I arrived at the Hynes Convention Center at 7:45am this morning – exactly 15 minutes before security guards opened the flood gates for this year’s Running of the Brides. For anyone unfamiliar with this tradition, the concept is simple: every February Filene’s Basement discounts thousands of wedding dresses in order to lure savage creatures who pummel one another over gowns that all look the same.

In a semi-civilized environment, the doors would swing open, and women would chase dresses in their desired sizes. But that’s not how it works; instead, greedy bitches and their entourages horde as many gowns as possible and then attempt to trade them with competitors who have also selfishly snatched everything in sight.

As soon as eyeballs touch the merchandise, these otherwise ordinary women transform into 16th century street merchants. “I got three size twelves and a fourteen over here;” “Who needs an eight? I got an eight for anyone who has a ten?” Substitute dress sizes for Sox tickets and these chicks could give Fenway scalpers a good run.

I’m not entirely complaining; the running is a pervert’s paradise with girls of all flavors stripping in plain view. There are essentially two categories of brides – ones who wear conservative body gloves and bathing suits, and tramp stamped hoochies who go straight bra and panties. Gentlemen – if your fiancé is the latter I recommend prenuptial agreements.

Sorry to be wicked anti-establishment, but the schmucks this morning were the worst sort of unimaginative Wal-Mart Americans. A Venn diagram would likely reveal a significant overlap between these dolts and folks who spend summer afternoons queuing at amusement parks. With such herds, tradition trumps logic; what other explanation is there for dozens of cute inexpensive colored dresses getting passed up while mothers literally clothesline one another over white prizes?

When it became too painful to proceed I stepped across Boylston Street for the afterparty at McGreevy’s, where I met a gaggle of nice ladies that failed to find a dress. Their sentiments reflected mine: boorish bargain pillaging is no way to buy an outfit that will be photographed and placed on your mantle until the divorce. I’m glad I met them; if not I might have stereotyped every person in there, which I essentially did anyway.

Next time you’re at a wedding – and you’re wondering why a bride’s dress is inexplicably hideous – remember this rant. Especially if there’s a size 11 Timberland mud print on the train; in that case I bet she crossed my path while running with the brides in Boston.

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