When I first saw my wedding dress, I didn’t think “romantic.”
I thought, “This is definitely a Python inheritance problem.”
You see, the dress was a Mermaid Style with Lace Overlay.
To any normal bride, it’s elegance.
To a Python developer, it’s a class extending another class:
class BaseDress:
def fit(self): return "Elegant"
class MermaidDress(BaseDress):
def fit(self): return super().fit() + " + Dramatic"
That’s exactly how I felt — elegant, dramatic, and slightly overengineered.
Buying the dress was another story. I walked into the bridal store like:
budget = 1000
dress_price = 2500
if dress_price > budget:
raise Exception("BudgetError: dress too expensive!")
But then I tried it on, everything froze, and my internal interpreter crashed.
Suddenly dress_price became irrelevant, like a forgotten variable.
I was ready to commit long-term:
I_do = True
During alterations, the tailor asked, “How tight do you want this around the waist?”
I told her, “As optimized as Python’s list comprehensions.”
She didn’t laugh.
Non-programmers rarely do.
The train on the dress was so long that I joked it must have been built using recursion:
def fix_train(train):
if train.short_enough():
return train
return fix_train(train.trim())
On the wedding day, I walked down the aisle thinking about garbage collection.
Not the ceremony cleanup — actual memory management.
I prayed none of my emotional memories would get deleted like unused variables.
But when my partner saw me, everything stopped.
He looked at me like Python sees whitespace: critically but lovingly.
In that moment, the algorithms in my head paused.
No imports, no indentation errors, no debugging.
Just the purest truth:
def love(forever=True):
return forever
And that’s how a bride in a wedding dress realized that Python, in its own structured, logical way, is actually romantic.
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