IN the past six months, three of my ex-boyfriends have gotten married. I know this, of course, because their pictures and celebrations have been plastered all over my Facebook wall.

It’s all rather rude.

According to social media, the lives of my exes have been respectively fabulous lately.

It’s been the summer of wedded splendour.

And me? I’ve been seated on the front row to it all – able to watch the whole build-up, the excitement, the brides-to-bes overly excited about cakes, and decorations and place settings.

One even posted hourly updates relaying the seating plans, the photographer details, the lingerie she would be wearing on her big day (I kid you not). As the clock ticked down to their various nuptials, the excitement ramped up and the pictures increased.

I unfollowed their newsfeeds, naturally, but found myself inexplicably drawn to their pages, unnaturally interested in their happiness.

I’m not one for weddings. There’s something faintly masculine in my approach to nuptials.

I smile sweetly, of course, and throw confetti on the happy pair. I can even understand on some level how happy they are.

But I also watch all of this with the vague knowledge that any future wedding of mine probably won’t be this overblown affair. I’m just not quite wired that way.

Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy weddings. I love a party. And I especially enjoy free bars. I even cry during the ceremony, which is probably a sign that I’m very emotionally unstable and will cry at anything ranging from fluffy, cute things to blurred notions of happily-ever-after. I left on amicable terms with most of my exes. I even received a wedding invitation from one of them. I very nearly went.

But then, why attend? The only reason I’d want to attend is to see what all the fuss is about, and I get to see all the fuss (and endure none of the awkwardness) from my place here, at Facebook Front Row.

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