Turns out there is a new kind of wedding in town; it’s called The Wedding Of Friend’s Offspring — or WOFO. And let me let you in on a secret: the WOFO is the way to go.
Let’s face it: Weddings are complicated.
There’s that odd stretch in your youth when all you do is go to weddings. For me, this went on for about five years and my emotional engagement varied in direct correlation to my own nuptial status. I would stand there and revel in the joy of yet another couple finding their soulmates while suspecting I would never find mine. This would directly lead to me partying like an animal, which reinforced my chances of never finding a soulmate. It was a vicious cycle. Come July, I would be facing Pachelbel’s Canon as if facing my own conjugal firing squad.
Then I got married. At last I reveled in the joy of finding my own soulmate, hoping he was my soulmate, even though I forgot his tallit in the cab — and wasn’t Jewish. That led directly to me partying like an animal, which reinforced the idea that I’m not, and never will be, worthy of a soulmate — even though I just found one.
After that, my friends’ weddings brought joy alongside a suspiciously sadistic version of schadenfreude. “Just you wait,” all of us newly married couples seem to collectively seethe from the pews or hiss from the chuppah, as we watched the adorable couple walk the plank.
Point is, there always seems to be a reason for weddings to cause emotional unrest. Your friend’s wedding isn’t your wedding, your siblings wedding better not come before your wedding, then there’s your wedding (or no wedding), followed by all the other suckers’ weddings. Sure, come time for the reception, partying like an animal is a natural consequence to all these variations. But your suspiciously zealous rendition of the Backstreet Boys on the dance floor remains dubious at best.
Then there are babies everywhere, which basically marches you through the exact same three-step psychological process. And then there’s death. My mother told me recently that the whole wedding-every-weekend thing turns into a funeral-every-weekend thing somewhere north of 70, so I better enjoy it all while I have the chance.
Yet somewhere along the line, you experience another critical life stage event that you realize was missing from your increasingly metaphysical march toward necrosis. You hit the WOFO — and that’s where things start to look up.
We have these awesome friends who are a few years ahead of us, which are the best kind of friends, because they can warn you about what’s coming. These are the friends who brought over emergency popcorn when I realized we didn’t have any in the middle of my daughter’s birthday sleepover. When they showed up with a ziplock of kernels, they were the only ones who could explain why my daughter was crying alone in her room.
“This always happens with the sleepover birthday girl,” they told me, smiling like Sophocles. “Don’t worry, it’s normal.”
Last month, my husband, Ian, and I attended the wedding of this couple’s eldest daughter in a warehouse in Bushwick; our very first WOFO.
“Bushwick? As in the place — ” Ian started.
“It’s cool now, Ian,” I snapped.
It was one of those apocalyptically hot days, when suddenly the temperature soared to the mid-90s and I realized all my summer heels were missing. Ian and I arrived in Bushwick in an absolute panic, only to find the best parking place ever scored in the history of New York City parallel parking.
“That’s because there are no other cars,” Ian said, nervously surveying the street.
We parked directly in front of the wedding venue, but there were no people.
“Are you sure we have the right place, Claire?” Ian asked. The building next door appeared to be a waste-processing facility that somehow involved welding.
The problem was, I had lost the invitation weeks ago and after a frantic google search, I realized these millennials were far too cool to post anything, anywhere, ever. When Ian asked whether it was black tie, the pregnant pause before my noncommittal response had him worried.
“It’s in Bushwick,” I told him flatly.
But after texting the mother of the bride for the details at the exact same time I was under the impression the wedding was supposed to start — and then trying to do that “reclaim text” thing that lets you take back a text you wished you hadn’t just sent — Ian and I finally figured out we were two hours early. Two hours, in Bushwick, in 90-degree heat.
“Let’s take a walk,” I suggested cheerfully.
After 10 blocks of industrial wasteland, we gave up on finding a trendy café with iced oat milk lattes and decided to settle on a neon-signed storefront called RUM. By this point, Ian’s tie was hanging loose, and we were both drenched in sweat. But at least Ian wasn’t in black tie and I had motorcycle boots on, the trendy alternative to summer heels when paired with a silk skirt. These were millennials, after all.
Turns out RUM was a hookah bar. Ian and I ate French fries and sucked down Diet Coke, speculating why these particular hookahs had tin foil funnel tops used for burning … something.
“Isn’t that what people use for … crack?” Ian asked.
“Do NOT,” I told him.
When Ian and I arrived at the wedding two hours later, our parking spot had earned its keep. The street was overflowing with Ubers, cabs, sleek cars — and a whole lot of black tie.
“We are supposed to be the adults here, Claire,” Ian told me, aghast, in his blue blazer.
Now I know kids today are good looking; I realize they have the advancement of science on their side and that no one drinks diet soda. But this scene was off the hook. Young women emerged from every industrial wasteland corner, dressed in sleek gowns and summer heels like orchids, while ridiculously good-looking young men opened doors for them in nonmansplaining manners, all in impeccable black-tie attire.
“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” my soulmate said, looking at my motorcycle boots.
But the night only got better from there, because when it’s a Wedding Of Friend’s Offspring, no one cares. I mean this in a good way. At a WOFO, it doesn’t matter that you’re not getting married, that you are getting married or that you just got married — you are just there to have fun.
You are not family, so you’re allowed to love the in-laws, the cake and the Swedish Candy Cart. And at a certain point you realize you are having the best time ever — even if you are the only 50-year-old slam-dancing to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” And if you’re lucky, in between the Instagram-able 50-foot banquet tables that perfectly balance the green-colored glass and copper tableware, you may just catch a glimpse of that guy in the blue blazer and realize that after all these years — all those ups and downs — you have found your soulmate, after all.
And with some luck, your friend’s offspring has probably found theirs, too.
Claire Tisne Haft is a former publishing and film executive, raising her family in Greenwich while working on a freelance basis on books and films. She can be reached at [email protected].