SNP’s word of the day: Weddingitis

Word: Weddingitis

Meaning: According to the inestimable Urban Dictionary, it’s an “ailment from attending too many weddings or the byproduct of having too many friends become engaged when you are still single. Side effects include outbursts of “AWWWWWW!!” and deep sighs. Lately, this -itis has become a far greater threat: studies show you can catch it even from people you don’t know, and a rash of celebrity weddings, spreading virally, has everyone in danger.

Usage: To paraphrase, or perhaps butcher, that notorious SNL “more cowbell” skit : “I’ve got weddingitis, and the only cure is more church bells.”

You should know it because: I’ve finally caught it. How many instances of the Great Summer Plague have I escaped? How many breakouts, each one successively deemed “the biggest” or “the blingiest” of “the year,” have I outrun? I took all the precautions: avoided tabloids, stayed home from royal-themed parties, immunized myself against “the fairy tale” by taking harsh doses of Andrea Dworkin, and washed my hands after clicking on links containing the word “Kate.” Because, of course, there are two newly wedded Kates: Middleton, the princess-bride, and Moss, the supermodel-bride. Millions and millions of fever-infected humans lost brain cells and a good night’s sleep as a result of the first. Then came Moss. Even my most thoroughly inoculated friends, those who’d handily survived the first, royally painful affair, caught a glimpse of the second Kate’s photos and broke out in certain inconsolable longing over a dozen little flower girls in Bonpoint dresses. I squeezed my eyes shut, prayed, and escaped again.

When the third wedding—that of the head Kardashian—went down, I started to breathe a little easier. Certainly there’s nothing catching about a wedding attended by 60 reality-TV cameramen and Lindsay Lohan in a white satin monstrosity.

And then yesterday, not in the least expecting it, I was felled by one simple shot: the director-goddess Sofia Coppola getting hitched in a beautiful tiny Italian town, wearing lavender Azzedine Alaïa. Alaiiiiia! And I’m done. Seeing orange blossoms everywhere. Craving foot-high vanilla icing. Crying for my mom.

Please, save yourselves. Do not let anyone, and especially not me, breathe in your face a word about this Lady Gaga wedding ru — Dear god, I can tell you’re already weakening.

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