Should I bother getting married, or is it a stressful waste of money?

Please tell me what to do

“My mummy won’t get married because she doesn’t want a ‘dick’ in her name.” This is what my daughter keeps telling everyone, much to her (and their) amusement.

My partner’s last name is Dixon, and hence the “DICK”.

While this is funny (who doesn’t love an old-fashioned dick joke?), it’s not the real reason that after 15 years, three kids and a mortgage, we haven’t yet tied the knot.

If we did get hitched, I could keep my name. After all, I don’t need any more admin (or dicks) in my life.

So it’s not the name that’s stopping us. It’s also not that we have taken a particularly principled stance against the institution of marriage, though there are many reasons to do so — the wedding industrial complex, the patriarchal history of marriage, and, let’s be real, the divorce rate — to name a few.

We just got busy accidentally producing three babies in two years and trying to keep them all alive. We moved from the UK to Australia, then moved house no less than five times in five years, plus various other nervous breakdowns along the way.

I guess this is probably why most people get married before they have kids — not because it’s the morally correct thing to do, but because once you have kids, you are too tired and poor to bother. Plus, when you spend most of the day covered in poop and puke, it’s hard to imagine wearing anything white ever again.

That’s not to say we didn’t try. We got engaged in 2019 and planned a ‘micro-wedding’¹ in 2021. Then someone ate a bat/had a bad day at the lab, and a little virus called Covid burst onto the scene.

We lost a bunch of money on the venue and various suppliers, and family and friends coming from overseas and interstate also got stung.

Then, life got even weirder for a while as we navigated the bizarre pandemic period. Given that we couldn’t even get a haircut or blow out the candles on a cake, a wedding seemed as likely as being singled out among thousands of people on the Jumbotron at a Coldplay concert while having an affair. Sorry, couldn’t help myself.

Then, just as restrictions began to ease, we set a new date, but Covid wasn’t done with us yet. As the next wave swept through, we once again cancelled the nuptials. By this stage, we’re thinking perhaps we needed to do an Elsa on the wedding and ‘let it go’.

Then in 2022, we finally bought a house and moved back to my hometown. For that, we had to sacrifice our firstborn. Joking! If only we could have done that instead of signing up for 30 years of debt. Once again, the wedding slipped down the priority list.

And now here we are all these years later, with a wedding dress I probably don’t even like anymore jammed in the top of my wardrobe, asking myself: WHY BOTHER? And WOULD THAT EVEN FIT ME NOW? And SHOULD I EVEN BE WEARING WHITE AT MY AGE?

I’ve been thinking about all this lately, because my parents recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary (my mum called it a life sentence). I also read Wendy Varley’s wonderful piece about making it official with her partner Ian, 39 years and four kids later.

As Wendy explains, she and Ian did it partly for pragmatic reasons (in the UK, you may have to pay inheritance tax on property if one partner dies but you are legally single).

This prompted me to research the laws in Australia. It turns out that de facto partners here basically have the same legal rights as married couples, so there’s no practical motivation to walk down the aisle.

Over the years, we’ve had conversations about it with family and friends who want to know if we still plan to get married. Each time, it goes something like this:

It would be nice to celebrate with the kids and our nearest and dearest, but given how long we’ve been together, the volume of kids we’ve produced and our shared love of toilet humour, isn’t it evident that we’re soul mates (or maybe cell mates, it’s hard to tell sometimes)?

Then we get onto the cost. While our married friends often declare their wedding day to be one of the best days of their lives, they also wince slightly at how much money they spent and how, knowing what they know now, they could have put this money to better use (e.g. a deposit on a house vs. four hours of canapés, Prosecco and terrible dancing — though really can you put a price on terrible dancing?).

Then we start talking about how we could just do the registry office, but really, what’s the point? If we don’t need the piece of paper for any legal reason, then the only motivation to get married is for a good old-fashioned knees up.

Then we start talking about a wedding again, pondering whether to do it here in Australia or closer to Andrew’s family in the UK (I could certainly see myself occupying an Italian villa for a few days, for example). Then we start talking about two weddings: one here and one there.

Then I get flabbergasted that this all sounds like a lot of ‘wedmin’ and money for two people who are basically married anyway.

Then I sigh loudly and we move on.

Andrew, for his part, is pretty keen on the idea of a celebration. But like every other social event in our calendar, it would be organised by me. He would just show up and bring what he calls the “vibes”.

So now I’m more confused than ever.

Would it be one of the best days of our lives and a great excuse to take family photos that don’t include someone crying or being punched? Would the kids love it and have fond memories of it? Or would it just be a stressful waste of money?

Most importantly — could we even withstand the possibility of hen and stag dos?² Surely not. Our friends are all in their forties, and we struggle to stay up past 9 pm. We could maybe handle brunch with plenty of hydration, at a push.

These are not rhetorical questions, dear readers. I want to know what you think! Did you get married? Was it worth it? What would you do differently now (a different choice of partner, maybe)? Share your wisdom!

Big love,

Sara (no ‘dick’ in her name)

xo

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1. A wedding that’s bigger than an elopement, but smaller than the Bezos-Sanchez festival, e.g. 30-40 people max.

2. Aussie versions of bachelor and bachelorette parties