Wedding planning is the end of all things good. But you do it anyway because… YOLO? You decide to have it overseas because you’re a fucking masochist who hates free time and THEN you decide you want it to be tiny. As in 10 people. But your fiancé also has a say in the wedding planning (why) and he wants to invite more people so you times that by 5 and end up with 50. And then add 10 because your own family is a billion people and you end up at 60.
60 people means nobody extra, we are talking bare bones, lifelong friendship. Like if you don’t know their middle name, they’re not invited (no FB checking allowed). After much chopping, to the plank went many a dear friend. Sorry guys, turns out there is not enough souvlaki to go around.
But we did it. We made the list. Sent the invites. To Greece we go.
We cried during the ceremony, both because of its mysticism but also because we made it to the big day and the fucking planning was finally over—sweet, sweet relief.
Before we get into the horrors I witnessed on my wedding night, I’d like to give you some background on the make up of our guests.
We are lucky to have beautiful friends who are stylish and graceful, with plenty of dignity to boot. It’s easy to spot our comrades in a room, they’re the humble ones cracking jokes between teaching you about world history and foreign films.
As we completed our rounds, someone stuck out to us like a sore thumb. They were not stylish or graceful, but a harrowing sight for two newlyweds in love.
An extra from the horror/thriller film Midsommar weaseled their way into our wedding! As I took in her braided hair and prairie frock, I found myself suffering from flashbacks of ancestral communes and overly realistic bear suits.
Suddenly, the world around us turned into a nightmare. A painful looking smile plastered onto her face left me fearing for where she’d end up at the end of the ritual. The only solace I could find was in knowing she was not a principal character, but only an extra whose lack of screen time would mean her life might actually be spared!
As she danced in circles, hands in the air praying for better management that might land her a speaking role, our friends looked on in despair. Is this what became of professional extras? Slithering into intimate weddings for a chance to be discovered?
Well my dear Midsommar extra, you have been discovered. We all saw what was and what could have been, and we’d like to help.
Tips for a Midsommar extra looking for more attention (and better management):
Trade in your prairie dress for a more suitable audition outfit, perhaps some jeans or a neutral romper.
Remove your braids. You’re scaring the kids. Also the hair really limits you to Swedish horror flicks.
Keep your arms down when you’re dancing so as not to be confused with someone performing a satanic ritual.
Avoid crashing parties where many of the guests work in the industry. You will become the butt of everyone’s jokes for the remainder of the celebration and nobody will buy your script.
Try taking an acting class or attend a filmmaking seminar to hone your craft, working as an extra for too long could slowly suck the life out of your very soul.
Beware current and future wedding planners, for unwelcome guests. The depraved may go to great lengths to garner a little attention and get their hands on some meat kebabs. But don’t fret too much, their arrival will mean inside jokes that will last a lifetime. It will also mean you have a chance to send them a word of advice so as to further their career and generally better their life.
To the Midsommar extra, we all hope you will soon graduate to a featured extra for some actual screen time and perhaps even secure yourself an agent.
Happy weddings, everyone!