Tales of a Groomzilla
“This photographer has zero talent,” I told my fiancée as we examined the sample wedding album. “I could take better photos with an iPhone jammed up my rectum.”
OK, I’ll admit it: I have become a groomzilla, the increasingly common (and dreaded) masculine version of a micromanaging bride. Oh, I don’t care about the flowers and table linens; I have no requirements of the cake beyond chocolate of some kind. But I’m an equal partner in our wedding day, much like 80 percent of other modern grooms, if Bridal Guide magazine is to be believed. And as the date swiftly approaches, I’m starting to melt down.
“What do you want for dinner tonight, honey?” my fiancée asked earlier today.
“DINNER?” I howled through my teeth-bleaching Crest Whitestrips. “Protein powder, just like we had for breakfast.”
Hey, I just want to look good on the most photographed day of my life. I’m in the best physical health since college — thanks to daily cardio/resistance/starvation — and the worst mental health.
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