Devon Pendleton

Dear Devon:

Thank you for participating in the Bridal Salon Show! I received your contact from the organizers and had the permission to follow up with you. Attached please find some information on Aruba that might be useful in planning your Wedding or Honeymoon!

Welcome to Aruba!

Sincerely,

Charly from Aruba

At last count, I have over 200 of these “personal” messages coagulating in my in-box. If it’s not Charly from Aruba suggesting fun and sun in Aruba (!!!) it’s Roey an editorial-photojournalist-with-an-artistic-eye-for-capturing-unique-wedding-settings or Erin, touting the quaint charm of wedding in Colonial Williamsburg. Brian Alex with his “custom love songs,” Donut Divas’ wedding chocolate and Sadick Dermatology’s…botox. All the prerequisite goods and services needed for The Best Night of Your Life.

Despite checking the “please don’t let vendors stalk me”  box when I signed up to attend the 2009 Wedding Salon at New York’s Palace Hotel earlier this month I find myself navigating a torrent of viral marketing which hasn’t let up since I exited the expo towing 10-pounds worth of bridal swag.

It is no secret that weddings are big business. Trade stats from the Association of Wedding Professionals show that in 2008 alone American couples and their families shelled out approximately $86 billion planning and hosting The Big Day. That’s the equivalent of 2,429 trips to the moon*, the market cap of Verizon or the entire GDP of Bangladesh. You might even be able to hire Barbara Streisand for that amount. And considering that that $86 billion goes to furnishing livings for hundreds of thousands of people (planners, DJ’s, TLC Network hosts) it is no wonder a trip through the Wedding Salon’s labyrinthine  exhibits felt like a breakneck spin through every Disney theme park.

To recap:

1. Registration

A winding velvet-roped line at least three dozen brides-to-be deep. A veritable rainbow of ethnicities, sizes and accents the women looked unvariably young- expos have lost their luster the second time around, I suspect- and giddy. Some brought files full of careful planning notes, some brought their mothers and one unsmiling brunette in a sharp tailored suit brought her fiancee. While we waited, a bored-looking five-piece cover band in purple polyester suits played Bryan Adams. When my turn came, an expo officiant took my name and tied a yellow ribbon tightly around my wrist, warning me sternly not to take it off if I wanted to collect my goody bag on the way out.

2. Indoctrination

A  militant lesbian claustrophobe’s living hell, the expo halls were packed with sweet, lacy frivolity. Beaming lovelies modeling gowns strolled the carpet, handing out designer’s business cards like Snow Whites proffering photo opps. Sweaty tuxedo-clad gentlemen with gelled hair beckoned from booths: “Hey honey, have you booked a videographer?” Severe congestion at the cake samples forced me to detour through the sit-down dinner displays which showcased glass, floral and ceramic centerpieces so enormous they conveniently blocked a diner’s view of everyone else at the table. Ducking the line to the hair stylists “free updo and makeover” giveaway, I arrived in the final room a hodgepodge of stationary and catering vendors. Sipping on a sample signature cocktail- a Listerine-hued wine cooler type thing, garnished with a rock candy swizzle stick- I waited to chat with the statuesque founder of CECI invitations, the fairy godmother of letterpress. So I waited. And waited. And eventually gave up, hands sticky, head spinning, arms overflowing with glossy brochures. I headed for the exit.

3. Deliberation

Finally, time to fetch my well-earned goody bag. The 5′ x 4′ ivory shopping tote was stuffed with bride-appropriate curios: a pewter keychain in the shape of a ball gown, hair extension clips, a sample size bottle of musky aftershave (?), several more pounds of glossy brochures and three bridal magazines- two of which have since gone out of business.

That’s right- out of business. Apparently not even $86 billion is enough to sustain magazine publishing these days. Go figure.

*Based on the $35 million paid by billionaire Charles Simonyi for a 10-day trip to the International Space Station in March 2009