I’m at this lovely place in my life where I am getting to do what in olden times princesses got to do – choose a worthy groom to mate with, so that my sovereign Queendom can effectively end.
The previous post’s theme continues and the universe is conspiring to make that happen and soon. My throne will be usurped.
Everybody and their relatives are all hunting for the man who will be my lawfully wedded husband.
Make no mistake, this time they all mean serious business. None of that idle indulgence in matrimonial centers, just dropping my name and seeing what happens. Which has so far been an unequivocal nothing because I yawned everytime they brought the topic up.
Now since I am not saying yes and I am not saying no and am not yawning even though I am back to being an insomniac, and since this (everyone but my dearest and true friends assure me) is THE TIME; it’s bloody buggering (literally) serious business.
This time, it’s full on – “You send photo, Madam, I will make her send hers.”
Or better yet, “Sir, this is her gmail id, youngsters these days, no, they like to talk it all out themselves. Not like our time, no? Ask your boy to chat with her.”
And the kindness of cousins. A strange mail in my inbox detailing the life and times of a Mr. Hifi English who could be the perfect match for me because he is none other than Mr. Hifi English. Icing on the cake? He lives in the erstwhile land of plenty, the now dead hope of millions – the U S of fucking A.
And all this without once actually asking me if I am okay with such strangeness in my inbox, or the embarassment of sending and viewing photos of absolute strangers in the hope of having an intimate relationship with them.
“You are old now. Cousins younger than you are all married or going to be, how can you possibly not want the same thing? At least think about your poor parents. (Beat) What’s your email id?”
And I laugh because oh lord above, is this entertaining or is it not!
And so I decide to actually survey the wares it were, albeit wearily. I even go so far as to have a profile put up. If my friends found theirs, won’t I fine mine, oh bleeding heart?
But I do it all wrong. Because I find that the best part is saying no. Considering saying no comes so easily to me. (Sweetie, if you are reading, I wish you’d learnt at least that one thing from me, so much easier our lives would have been. Oh, but I forget the sort of person I am. I couldn’t have taught you anything, no?)
For now, I am the Queen of Hearts, looking at profiles and pictures, ticking them off the list and saying, “Off with his head!”
The Tale of Givenchy and the Irresistible Lies. Look what you wrought upon us, my Yudhishtra-in-the-making – holding your cards so close to your chest, that you lost us anyway.
If any of my relatives are reading, don’t mind this fun at your expense. I am grateful that you care. Really, I am.
And if you are one of those wannabe Bhumika’s grooms reading, please if you can’t find this amusing, don’t expect me to bugger you; just bugger off right now. Oh, I beg your pardon, is that rude? Well, it’s my boudoir and if I can’t be myself in my boudoir, where the fuck can I? (Why do I still feel guilty about using profanity?)
Oh, buggering bollocks, this Queen will rule till Kingdom Come.