This is not good

Happiness isn’t happening here. So if you are looking for love, joy and free sex, please move on.

We shall talk about a great Indian occurrence called a Wedding.
And if you’re a woman, you’d pretty much know what freaking stress that is.
If you’re a man, you’d know the amount of alcohol that flows out in one. And about uber-posh hotel bathrooms turning into a tsunami wrecked area within a few hours.

So then. This Wedding is happening to me. I know I make it sound like a disaster, but then, it pretty much is.
Now I know that its supposed to be the happiest moment and special day of my life and all that; but we’ve decided to grow up and become world-weary and cynical and realize that fairytales are imaginary crap doled out by people who were pissed drunk at some party and needed to make some sort of a living to pay for their lifestyles and expenses, let’s skip the happiness & joy part. Ok?
Special it is. Because I’m knowingly making the biggest mistake of my life. So it shall hold super special memories for me till I live.
But I digress.
Coming back to the Wedding.
Since its mine, I have to pretend to be a bitchy bride who’s extremely interested in trousseau, shopping, fooding & lodging for guests, and buying jewelry.
Reality is I couldn’t give a shit about most of these things.

So instead, I pretend to be the bitchy bride who’s extremely interested in doing all of the above, but since she has to work and pay rent and buy food to feed her ever so slowly receding stomach, doesn’t have the time.
The good thing about it is everyone else is working hard at doing my job. Even my shoes are being bought by the Flatmate since she rather buy shoes than sit at home.
I rather sit at home and watch TV.


Tempers are flaring everywhere. My phone bills are soon going to be stuff legends are made of.
And while all this happens, I have to keep the chin-up and smile and pretend I’m having fun.

Pretend that its fun to waste so much money to feed 700 odd people. And buy unnecessary stuff. And throw bachelorette parties where everyone wants to get drunk at my expense.
Excuse me, don’t we do that every second week already? Getting drunk and flirting and bringing home strange men at night, only to forget their names the next morning is pretty regular. So can we all please treat it like that? The W-word just makes everything non-fun and stresses me out. Get it?
Pretend that its fun to have conversations with the in-laws over some stupid fuckshit gifts.
Crap.

And now the interesting bit - I’m scared of commitments. With anyone. With everyone. I’m no longer going to be single. Footloose and fancy, yes, but no, not single.
Double.
And if possible, more complicated. Decisions become joint. I don’t like that word already while I’m typing it. Paperwork increases. And slamming doors and walking out, or throwing P out will no longer be an easy option.
Breaking-up with a nasty sms and a nastier phone call will be history too. It’ll actually cost me money to separate. With lawyers charging by the hour.
Am I expected to do housework? And will my credit card statements be checked by others? Am I supposed to act and behave differently? Which side of the bed is P going to take up? What if its my side? Do I really have to go through all this?
Is The Man going to turn up? Would it hurt him to see me getting married to someone else?
Should I keep meeting The Man even after the paperwork is over?
And lastly, is it possible that I can stay at your place for a few days in the first week of December? Before I find a safe place to hide and call it home. I promise I shall carry only essentials and not my entire luggage. I’m also hoping some weight-loss shall happen by then. So I’ll take up very little space you see.