Do Hers Look Bigger Than MINE?

In last week’s installment I discussed the unpleasant work of decorating madness, or in other words the intricate task that is much better suited to children and tiny fingers.

Well before I even had a chance to repair my back and callused hands, it was time for a party that you’d almost confuse as my sister’s wedding for its size, catering, and giant white tent.

The purpose of this pre-fesitivity was multiple in nature. A “mayian” or pre-wedding tradition in laymen’s terms, with a batna ceremony for the cleansing of the bride’s soul, and a jaggo fest (which quickly translates into dancing and chanting straight into the night).

I could carry on about the details of these Indian traditions, but that’s what Wikipedia’s for (I even made you a link up there that explains it all!). What I’M here for is the details, the tiny little moments that you never really get from the “How to be an Indian” professional handbook.

First things first, when your aunt and cousins are staying at your house, and when an Indian party is on the brink, you HAVE TO bust out the fancy embroidered textiles. While they’re flashy and full of colour combos you could never pull off in the white man’s world, these clothes are enjoyed and revered across the culture .

And like any fancy clothes, they require special prep:

-ironing.

Anyone who knows me like a “BFF” (hey girls!),  knows that I would rather clean a toilet than iron a shirt. But what about ironing fancy layers of fabric, with jewel-encrusted designs at every few inches, making it nearly impossible to navigate through the vast expanse of fabric?

The heat, the sweat, the steam, the frustration, it was just enough to drive me to murder, making it all the more lucky that the ironing board was stationed in a dead-end corner of the house.

This never ending ironing was made worse by the fact that my aunt, mother and cousin all needed their clothing ironed. Plus me, plus my sister.

But when  did I become an ironing whore?

First the decorating slavery, now the ironing, I was beginning to feel like Cinderella without the happy ending. Although I couldn’t really complain, since it’s not like they were beating me (and I KNOW that Cinderella got the beats, even if it wasn’t in the Disney version).

Looking like a sweaty hag by the time I was finished, it was already 4pm, and the guests were scheduled to arrive in an hour.  This left me just enough time to change, make my eyes look awesome (with multiple shades of ”ho shadow), and curl my hair for the visual delight of all.

A third of the way through the curls (with only fifteen minutes to go), I heard a light tap on the door. It was my aunt.

“Can you please help your cousin with her hair and makeup? I have to go and work in the kitchen!”

When I opened the door my aunt was already walking away, with my cousin now deposited in her place. I grudgingly let her in, confused at how a teenage girl couldn’t even handle her own hair and make-up. Wasn’t she supposed to be obsessed with this stuff?

I quickly remembered that the girl was a part of  MY family. My own teenage years had been absent of disposable income much like hers, leaving zero opportunity for stocking up on eyeshadow or buying hair appliances.

So in a heartwarming act of charity, I decided to help her out.

Fifteen minutes later her eyelids were adorned with sparkly blue shades. Her hair however had been harder to curl, since the hair of the young is a little too soft and healthy for the grasp of the iron. Aww, poor you and your silky mane!

Even so I managed to give her some bouncy ends, so she left to go put on all her jewelry.

Seconds later the doorbell rang. I teased whatever curls I had and pinned it wherever I could.

The quick ‘n dirty look.

With the guests now in place I made my way outside with sister and mother, we who were starring in tonight’s festivities.  I didn’t make it far into the yard, when I was blinded by a glint of light.

It was my cousin and her chandelier earrings.

Which were three times the size of mine.

Bitch!

It may not seem like a big deal to do you, but in Indian party-land, earring size is equivalent to men and being naked in the locker room.

Sucks to be the little guy!

And to think that I’d been helping my socially retarded  cousin with a charity makeover…only to be trumped by her “danglers”.

I survived the rest of the party by gorging myself with appetizers the size of a dinner, and a dinner the size of three dinners.

It was fabulous, but still I had to squeeze into the wedding day attire, which despite CLEAR measurements, had been tailored to the specs of me minus ten percent.

Bring on the laxatives!