Til’ Death Do Us Part (Or Food Poisoning)

I attended a wedding lunch last Sunday. Correction: I was forced to attend a wedding lunch Sunday because it so happened that the invitation card my father received was addressed to Mr Han and Family. OH, what I would’ve given to not be my father’s daughter for one day, though I’m sure he would accept anything for a teenage pain in the ass to disappear.

A few years ago, this young sprout would have been overjoyed to be attending a wedding- the impressive fairy tale ballroom filled with dapper guests, the towering white fondant cake with intricate icing laces, the adorable couple in their best gown and suit giving a wonderfully witty speech and toast.

Ha. Not in this town. It was nothing but a dull, rehearsed affair. Rowdy friends of the bride and groom made up half of the party and the other half of the discounted hotel function room filled with relatives that you vaguely remember from that family gathering that happened at that time and at that place.

I fished out my kindle reader like a pro from my mother’s handbag and returned to The Picture of Dorian Gray, but still paid sufficient attention to the chattering at our table to know that my cousin sister was not going to university but instead planning on running a fashion blog shop, followed by various other gossip about an uncle that became obese and  then quarreling about who should take my grandmother to dialysis on the weekdays.

The bride and groom were no prince and princess either. Their kiss was a brief peck on the lips, their jokes were mediocre and they simply looked as if they wanted everything to be over quickly. What else was wrong with this romantic ceremony? Many things. The waitstaff’s dance number was not good, the food was ordinary and several balloons burst, almost giving the fairly large elderly population cardiac arrests.

What was even worse was that everybody knew that it was not a good wedding. The awkward silences screamed so. I have a terribly big family, and many relatives who are at that age. I dread the next invite that says save the date. More like save yourselves.

Advertisements