Our Big Fat Feminist Wedding

feminist wedding

It’s totally reasonable to start this series of posts off the way any rom-com would start: How we met.

Bentley and I met in 2009 while training at Absolute MMA, a mixed martial arts gym in West Jordan. He overheard me tell an incredibly lewd joke, and knew he wanted to get to know the “innocent looking lady with a mouth like that.” It’s not exactly a “traditional” first encounter, and my mother would make me eat soap if she only knew the things I said to catch his attention. Bentley messaged me on Facebook (how very millennial) and we scheduled a date.

He stood me up for the first date, but I wasn’t too concerned, and agreed to go out for ice cream and a walk in the park a week later.

Our relationship blossomed during hours of intense punching, kicking, choking, and interval training. We casually dated for about one year before deciding on monogamy. After a few months in a committed relationship, we moved in together, because I was dealing with a super shitty living situation.

Here we are almost five years later, and we just got engaged.

He didn’t propose with a ring. He didn’t get on a bended knee. He didn’t ask anyone for permission.

He didn’t do any of those things because my feminist ideology (and his) has always made our coupling look and feel a bit different. This series of posts is going to discuss the process of entering into the institution of marriage. It’s going to cover how we navigate super archaic traditions (white dresses, “giving away” the bride, etc.). It’s going to be contradictory, and full of pleas for help. It’s an honest peek into us getting married, because one day you might wake up and find yourself (your body-posi-sex-posi-bell-hooks-loving-self) looking one of the most heteronormative and patriarchal institutions in the face, and maybe these posts can help.

Welcome to our big fat feminist wedding.