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.