ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID, NEVER A BRIDE

Remember when the phrase “always a bridesmaid, never a bride” was whispered like a curse word—an unflattering epitaph for women too old, too single, or simply too unlucky to snag a ring? Fast-forward to the era of avocado inflation and $19 airport lattes, and the label has lost its sting. In fact, many of us now wear it like haute couture: unapologetic, irreverent, and distinctly freed from the towering price tag of matrimony. The stigma has faded, but another, very tangible burden remains: the cost of bridesmaiding. What used to be a pastel-chiffon inconvenience has mutated into a five-figure line item that can strangle a savings account faster than you can say “non-refundable deposit.” Brides today don’t just want their besties by their side; they want them in bespoke satin, airbrushed to high heaven, willing to foot the bill for a weekend in Cabo and a second bachelorette at an upscale glamping resort “because everyone’s so exhausted.” Small wonder the perpetually single among us are celebrating our unmarred credit scores as fervently as any fairytale first dance.

the perpetually single among us are celebrating our unmarred credit scores as fervently as any fairytale first dance.

The numbers are enough to jolt even the most Pinterest-addled bride back to reality. According to the latest wedding-industry surveys, the average hometown bridesmaid—yes, hometown, no flights involved—drops between $1,500 and $2,500 on dresses, alterations, hair and makeup, gifts, showers, and that mandatory silk robe destined for a bottom drawer. Tack on a destination bash and the bill skates north of $4,000; factor in a holiday-weekend surcharge, and you’re suddenly approaching the cost of a used Honda Civic. Multiply by three—because wedding season is nothing if not a relentless hydra—and you have eight grand evaporating into monogrammed tote bags. A financing plan for love? Hard pass. Give me mutual funds over mutual misery any day.

Of course, Carrie Bradshaw saw this coming years before TikTok birthed #BudgetBridesmaid. In the now-classic “Sex and the City” episode “A Woman’s Right to Shoes,” Ms. Bradshaw tallied her single-tax grievances after a mom-of-three guest assumed Carrie’s lost Manolo Blahniks were frivolous, not reimburse-worthy. “Single choices, single consequences” was the dismissive verdict, forcing our heroine to register for replacement heels like a one-woman bridal registry. It was a send-up, sure, but it was also the first mainstream articulation of an economic truth: single women subsidize everyone else’s milestones while our own remain brand-free and optional. Twenty-plus years later, the invoice hasn’t just grown; it’s compounded at bridal-market interest rates.

Yet we still say yes—at least a lot of us do—because friendship, love, and the faint roar of a champagne waterfall have irresistible pull. We cry at the vows, we tackle that train like Olympic long jumpers, then we hurdle to the dance floor when we hear “the Cha Cha Slide.” But the calculus is shifting. Flights are pricier, PTO is scarcer, and airlines fling luggage around like sugar packets. Millennials are staring down student-loan interest while Gen Z navigates gig-economy paychecks and rent gouging; both cohorts are now publicly questioning whether the emotional return on bridesmaiding justifies the financial hemorrhage. Scroll through social media and you’ll find a new lexicon of boundaries: bridesmaid proposals declined with love, mix-and-match dresses championed for re-wearability, squad gifts pooled to avoid six identical gravy boats. These aren’t acts of rebellion; they’re acts of financial self-preservation—an elegant “no” wrapped in champagne satin.

The old trope of the bitter spinster is gone, replaced by the delightfully solvent version who attends your wedding with gusto, then escapes with cake in hand and bank account intact.

The old trope of the bitter spinster is gone, replaced by the delightfully solvent version who attends your wedding with gusto, then escapes with cake in hand and bank account intact. The real revolution isn’t that women remain unmarried; it’s that we’re refusing to bankroll a fantasy that yields no equity. That refusal isn’t bitterness; it’s boundaries, as etiquette doyenne Judith Martin politely reminds any bride demanding Versailles on a bridesmaid’s salary. “If you want the full spectacle,” Miss Manners gently insists, “you’re welcome to underwrite it.” Even Glamour’s money columnists—usually a bastion of gentle budgeting tips—now bluntly advise brides to pay up if their vision involves private-island photo shoots and mandatory glam squads.

Still, there’s a reason many of us continue to slip on those matching heels: joy. Weddings can be exquisite celebrations of love and community, and saying “no” outright isn’t always simple. The trick is learning to curate our yeses. Three wedding invites this summer? Accept the two that spark genuine delight and politely bow out of the one that requires a second credit-card limit. Before committing, establish a spending ceiling that doesn’t make you nauseous; real friends won’t flinch if you choose a lower-cost hotel or re-wear a dress. Advocate for mix-and-match palettes—blush in any silhouette, emerald in any length—so no one is stuck shelling out $350 for a single-use gown. And normalize group gifts; a collective splurge on a high-end espresso maker delivers more impact and less clutter than half a dozen mismatched candlesticks.

What’s truly refreshing is the cultural pivot away from shaming single women for living outside the vow factory. The so-called spinster—once viewed as a lonely cautionary tale—now sets the pace for financial independence, creative travel, and friendships that don’t hinge on plus-one status. We fling petals at our friends’ happily-ever-afters and then gallivant off on our own pre-planned vacations, free of wedding-weekend price surges. We toast love, but we also toast ourselves for refusing to torch a year’s rent on a designer chiffon dress that will never eclipse the thigh friction of a humid beach ceremony. We’ve discovered that being a bridesmaid does not require being a doormat; we can love your love story without letting it loot our savings.

We’ve penned a new manifesto: joyfully, unapologetically “always a bridesmaid.” We will sip Prosecco, dance until our knees beg for mercy, and flood the grid with memories—but we will also balance the books, honor our own milestones, and refuse to hand over our financial futures for a single day’s pageantry. Because the only aisle anyone must walk is the one lined with self-respect—perhaps in moderately priced Manolos, certainly in shoes we chose for ourselves. If that means declining a $700 hair-and-makeup bundle or skipping a midweek destination shower, so be it; friendship can weather a cost-cutting trim. And if someone tries to resurrect that dusty scold “always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” just smile and raise a glass to compound interest, unmatched freedom, and the sweet relief of dodging divorce court fees. Happiness, after all, is best measured not by rings or registries, but by the balance between what we give and what we can afford to keep—both in money and in peace of mind.