Confessions of a Wedding Invitation Overthinker
Now I know, or at least I think I know, what you're asking. Or shouting into the wedding-advice void, waving a fistful of half-stamped envelopes and a half-eaten cupcake (don’t worry, I see you): Invitations. Do you gotta have ’em? Where do people get them? Are there rules? How do celebrities send these things? Should I hire a minor calligraphy wizard?
Short answers, in no particular order: Yes, absolutely, I don’t know, sometimes, probably not.
Look, full disclosure: my entire reference point for invitations was my grandmother's relentless stack of them on top of her microwave (weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, showers, you name it), right next to her collection of Starlite mints and doomscrolling grocery receipts stacked tighter than my jeans after Thanksgiving. For her 60th anniversary (pause for respect), she and grandpa went full monarch mode—think gold flake, cursive so swoopy you could water ski on it, an embossed scent of talcum powder wafting from inside the envelope. I'm not saying you need Chanel No. 5–scented cardstock, but at this point, why the heck not?
Back to you. Because this, is your day in the wedding anniversary invitation sun, and I have thoughts. Also opinions. Possibly even Strongly Held Views (TM). So, here’s the thing with invitations: Society says you send one, or Grandma’s Likely To Faint (definition of "Likely To Faint": panic spiral followed by lengthy lectures about Home Training and "in my day...")—but why are we all so collectively worried about fonts and envelopes and if pastel blush will signal to Dave from work that he’s only semi-welcome?
Oh, right. You’re expected to have one. Like, an actual, hold it in your hand, stick it on your fridge, use it as a coaster when drunk on wedding margaritas sort of invitation.
Where do people get these? Internet. Duh. You know this, I know this, we all know this, yet there I was two months ago googling “can you send invitations via interpretive dance?” (Spoiler: most venues frown upon modern jazz-style RSVP-ing. Philistines.)
Options, though! You want them? Here are my greatest hits: Stationers, Etsy, Zazzle, BigBoxPrintDepotThatChargesForEveryVowel, local folks who actually think fonts are a human right, or that friend who still owns a Cricut and four cats. Pro tip: anyone who insists gold foil is “so 2022” is either lying or allergic to joy.
Hot take: You don’t have to send a piece of cardstock. You can send a playlist (it’s been done), a weird puzzle that spells out your names and date, carrier pigeons (a strong don’t in case you want your food eaten by tiny flying beaks), or—hear me out—digital invitations. I know, the scandal! The earth might literally stop spinning if Great Aunt Gloria can’t tear open an envelope with her collection of antique letter openers, but trust: Digital is eco-friendly, cost-friendly, and lets you include GIFs. And nothing says “formal affair” like baby Yoda inviting ya’ll to a dry chicken dinner.
But the heart of it all? Announcing your delight. Sharing a chunk of your heart, slapping a little whimsy on cardstock (metaphorically or literally—glitter tape is a lifestyle choice, not a hobby). Your invite, babe. You make the rules. Full-on Bridgerton calligraphed scrolls or an email with fifteen fonts and more three exclamation points than the laws of nature intended!
And know this: however you send it—smoke signals, bejeweled messengers on horseback, Canva.com like an uncaffeinated design tornado as I did—your people will show up.
They want to celebrate you.
Even if you forgot their +1.
But not if you skipped them altogether. So, like, maybe do send an invite. However you want. Wherever you find it, that—that—is the rule.
Go on, confetti-commander. Announce yourself.
Your invitation to whimsical living is revoked only if you skimp on jokes or overthink fonts. Everything else? Totally fair game.