Hello, I'm Getting Hitched

“I’m getting married.”

These words never fail to carry the chill of reality into my world of insouciance. And I hate it, not when my friends say it, but when people whom I’ve dated before tell me with brimming mirth that I actually wonder if they know what they are getting themselves into.

It’s like being in a departmental store shopping and you are picking out the best outfits and you don’t really know what you want so you carry a bunch of them along. Then you go into the fitting room and you try them out and you know you can only pick one, so you set aside the ones that although fits you well but you’re just not sure if you like that colour enough.

Then you go back to browsing and someone comes along and buys that outfit. And that’s it.

I always figured that people would always be around. You know, like even if they got attached, there was always going to be a chance that it would fuck up eventually and they’ll come back around at the right time.

Or by that, it seems that I have been such an emotional scar that women would leave hope of my reform in abandonment and steer a course of pursuit for stability and security in men. And there I was still thinking that a good tease and oral fellatio were still merits that women look for in a man.

So what now? They get married, and we can no longer have a quick rendezvous in the back seat of the car? Will the wrath of retribution come doubly hard, because cheating in a marriage is infinitely more grievous since it’s become a stigma?

Maybe life is meant to continue with flaws. I am not suppose to throw away shirts even if they have been stippled with stains, because I might have been too focused on them that I missed the beauty of the fabric.

I’ve never enjoyed the news of an impending marital bliss when it comes from people whom I have been romantically involved in. And by that, I mean relationships that consisted of an equal portioning of sex, laughter and arguments. Even when love has faded, memories still makes this harder to swallow than Sunday communion.

“He proposed.”

And my immediate reaction was to pause for a quick prayer that intelligence would not fall to a diamond ring. Reflex response has never been my most sociable attribute and even under a full coat of sobriety, nothing good really comes out my mouth.

Me: “Please tell me you said, no.”

Obviously it never pens out that way, because real life is hardly a magnet for drama, unless of course you jump into the lion’s den.

There was however a chain of coincidences because my mother was only just bringing up the whole marriage speech to me and I see this as a progress because 10 years ago, that talk was born from a worry that I might be gay because I wasn’t seeing any girl. Then 6 years ago when I was in a relationship, it was about ‘keeping the options open’ – I swear I thought my mum was the coolest then.

Then 2 years ago, it was about ‘finding someone special’ because she got tired of the plurality of my life and there was just too many for her to keep track. Then now, against ineluctable dawn of aging, she has decided to pitch a marriage talk to me even when I’ve been single for over 3 years.

In truth, it was like a nostalgic revisit of the dating annals.

She: “What happened to that girl driving the white car?”
Me: “She’s psycho mum. Do you want your grandchild to stab you in your sleep?”
She: “I like ‘Fire Engine’.”
Me: “She’s getting married. Too bad for you.”
She: “Then the one last Chinese New Year?”
Me: “The one I thought was damn hot and you didn’t?”
She: “Was she that pretty?”
Me: “Yes, FHM thought so. You didn’t.”

When I told LB about it, he met the news with laughter, which I didn’t see coming. He was amused on the fact that I seemed more like the rude awakening for women, because there was building evidence that women tend to get married fast after they have dated me.

LB: “You know what? People who want to get married early should just start off by dating you.”

Perhaps I had a higher calling in life. My role, other than to be an asshole, was to drive women so far down the despairs of dating that anyone that came after me would be like an iced Milo truck in the desert. As it seems, people who get over me, always come out of it stronger and smarter than when they plunged in.

And me, being me, will never let it slide this easily. I’m taking the wedding invitation and I’ll make up for that over the open bar they hopefully have and I’m extending my hand in congratulations, but it will come with a whisper.

Indecent proposals have just been made the new black.