Turning 25 can be really stressful. Ask me. My parents are gung-ho about getting me 'settled in life' with a 'nice brilliant' boy (Read: A fat spectacled Bong guy. Ok so maybe I am exaggerating a bit). So I have had a tiff with my pa over the phone. That was two days ago. He went on and on like a stuck record about a particular guy he has in mind, till I wanted to throw up. I cut him short. He's not called me up since. I just can't get my folks to understand my idea of a guy.
I guess I am waiting for my prince charming. But it not's gonna happen, is it? On second thoughts, I should pray for a knight in shining armour. At least he could rescue this poor damsel in distress.
Arranged marriages, it seems, are tough ventures. After all, how many
times do you tell the prospective grooms about yourself? At least I am tired of it. After talking to the first guy my parents were keen on andwho turned out to be a slimeball, I have had to communicate on mail with another guy on e-mail, cause he stays in London. And I have had to go through the rigours of writing about myself again. At one point I felt like sending him a link to my blog. But sanity prevailed and I didn't. Enough about Bong well-to-do guys and matchmaker parents. I guess I sound obsessive now.
Yesterday I happened to bump into my alcoholic mate eM at a vodka
launch. With her and me around, goof ups are just waiting to happen.
Last time she didn't want to get out of the ladies' room. Yesterday was my turn. It went something like this. We had a very teenybopperish drink in the form of a classic Finlandia with cranberry juice. And I was eager to try a mango vodka. eM promised me we would get the drink from the vice president of the company itself. Let me call him Wiggy (he had quite an atrocious wig on) After some time, our conversation with him went like this.
eM: Now Mango Vodka is a very unique flavoured drink. Haven't heard of it before.
Wiggy: It is our USP.
eM: I was wondering whether we could smell it?
Me (Vigorous nods)
Wiggy beckoning the waiter: Get them a bottle of mango vodka. They want to smell it.
That's as good as we got!
Next the PR woman came up and asked us whether we had a taste of
Finlandia. We looked at her and said we were curious about the mango
flavoured one. She offered to get it for us and looked askance. Did we want it? I smiled and said, "Why not?" The woman came back with a
thousand apologies. I wished myself invisible. Next, they offered us
watches as 'small tokens' from Finlandia. I tried to put on my
wide-eyed-innocent-act and was at my coyest best while accepting the
watch 'unwillingly' when I noticed the other PR girl trying to warn me about something. I found out soon. There was a step ahead. Of course I missed it.
The evening was hellish. I had to put myself through an hour's torture of shrill Punjabi Pop. The singer was called Mehsophuria (apparently his father is from a Punjabi village called Mehsopur). He sang some awful number called Ranjha Jogi. I thought I would go into convulsions. But the balle balle crowd was at its enthusiastic best. Including dancing to Mehsophuria and buying his CDs to get them autographed. I am sure had Hitler ever come across Mehso, he would have snapped him up. Nothing better than Mehso performances for his gas chambers.
To my chagrin, I had to talk to him for a few minutes, within which span I just couldn't take my eyes off his flashing gold teeth. There were two in the front part.
The worst part is yet to come. I got lectured by a guy who was compering the show. I had asked him to hasten up the autograph session. I was getting late. Smartass told me, "I am also into journalism. I know how it is. You have to wait. After all, we are not the celebrities." That was it.
I was at my snooty best as I asked him, "So which organisation do you
work for?" He looked at me and said, "I am doing my bachelors in
journalism." Did he say bachelors???!!!! I stared at him in disbelief, at his cocky sureness. Dirty liar. Next when he tried to tell me that he takes autographs of the people he meets, I looked at him in utter disgust and said, "Another rule. Journalists DO NOT take autographs." Sometimes, a single action of yours can make you delirious with happiness. I loved myself at that moment. And I walked out a happy woman.
5 comments:
Very nice post, was giggling away at work as I read it (it brought back such happy, happy memories of vodka) You forgot to mention big all-night Lapland party though :)
And I usually get the writers I meet to sign their books--didn't realise it was against the code of our fraternity!
Lapland???? I need details!
mesopuria :))
im in punjab and i know exactly how you feel about that.
i am also almost 25 and i know exactly how you feel about writing to men in london, talking to people you meet for the first time, and damning them as slimeballs coz you feel you spoke too much, in retrospect (or mebbe that's just me.. )
but hey, sure does feel good to have some company!!
I have no idea what I'd do if arranged marriages were actually a part of Chinese culture.
"Mom, Dad, forget girls, find me a nice muscly man and you've got a deal."
eM: Well, I do it too - asking writers to autograph books, but that's different. Please I am sure you don't ask actors or loser singers for their autographs. That's exactly what I meant. Actually it was more a set down for the donkey.
motheater: Who knows maybe your flattie will be on a Lapland junket! Pls pls pray that I do. Imagine everything icy around you. Oooh...
eM: You too can do the same. Pray for me and of course for yourself;)
methinks: So there's someone out there who goes through the same ordeal as I do. You are so right there about saying too much about yourself and then feeling like an idiot.
Jay: Now why does that sound so familiar? Seems we have similar tastes buddy!:)
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