Living Life in the Fat Lane

Chapter 8: The Wedding

Here comes the bride, all dressed like a genie in a bottle, waiting for her master to rub the magic lamp so she can grant him three wishes. In Malou’s case, she’d grant Amir more than three wishes if that meant a trip to Paris for their honeymoon. Oh I am sure everyone is picturing Amir’s wishes right now.

Only Malou and Amir could make a wedding seem like a scene from a pornographic movie - all the solemnity thrown out the window, replaced by vulgarity and a ton of sexual innuendos. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if theirs is a relationship founded on love or merely the satisfaction of each other’s sexual appetite. But I am no relationship expert, so who am I to judge? Malou is happy…for now, at least.

            The clinking of the forks against the crystal wine glasses fills the air once more, compelling the newly-weds to lock lips yet again. This time, instead of a chaste, three-second kiss, they give us a preview of what is bound to happen later inside their honeymoon suite. One by one, mothers start covering their children’s eyes with their hands, as Amir’s hand becomes more exploratory, wandering what should be, for now, Malou’s off-limits body parts.

“Whoa, guys! There are children here! Save that for later, man!” shouts Benjie, Amir’s best man and tonight’s emcee. Amir gives Malou one final kiss, as his hand lets go of her chin. He stands up and does what seem like Hulk Hogan poses, as if showing the whole world that he has won the grand prize. Malou? Grand prize? To each his own.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s all hear from the father of the bride. Why don’t we give him round of applause? Come on, Mr. Renato Villanueva, it’s time for your speech,” says Benjie enthusiastically.

Everyone starts clapping their hands tentatively.

“Come on, folks! You can do better than that!” shouts Benjie over the microphone, causing a loud piercing sound. Some people cover their ears, while others make complaining sounds; some are just too drunk to react.

Malou’s father slowly makes his way up the makeshift stage and grabs the microphone from Benjie. “Hello, hello,” he says, making me want to shout “The mike’s working!” He gives the standard speech that all fathers of brides give, thanking everyone that came, wishing the bride and the groom a happy life together. He starts telling the story of how Malou has always been the perfect daughter, and then I hear nothing after that, my auditory sense shutting down as a defense mechanism, rejecting anything that is pro-Malou.

 I decide to continue with my social experiment. So far I have smiled at ten people whose reactions ranged from “What a loser!” to “Cray-cray!” In all honesty, I do not even know if I can take any more of the humiliation. In my hopes of making a 180-degree turn, I am slowly losing the little self-esteem that I have left. WHY CAN’T PEOPLE JUST SMILE BACK? IS IT THAT DIFFICULT TO BE NICE? It’s not like smiling would cost you a single centavo. 

There are times when it is easier for us to give away something material like a pair of shoes, a sweater, or a book, but when it comes to the intangibles we are stuck. There are about two hundred fifty guests here. I should be able to get quite a few positive responses. Maybe I should try some of the foreign guests. Foreigners seem to be more open, more willing to engage in social activities. Hmmm. Let me see if I can make some eye contact with anyone.

 I see an old Caucasian lady nursing a glass of red wine. Old ladies should be easy. They are always so friendly, and they always make you feel like you are kin. I picture her in her apron baking dozens of chocolate chip cookies. Okay, here goes nothing. I smile. She raises her right eyebrow. That’s positive, in a way, right? At least I elicited a response.

I try again, this time with a little boy, Amir’s nephew, a boy of maybe five or six. I wait for him to look at me and then I smile. His lower lip protrudes. He looks like he is about to cry. Even children find me repulsive. I scribble the data in my notebook.

As I search for the faces of people to include in my little experiment, I suddenly notice a tall, white guy looking over my shoulder, straining to see my notes. “So, how many smiles have you gotten today?” It is Matt, one of Amir’s closest friends. He works for a non-governmental organization devoted to putting an end to world hunger.

I met him through a mutual friend, Cleo, about the same time Malou met Amir. Cleo was celebrating her fourth thirtieth birthday and Matt and I were assigned to sit next to each other. Our conversations ranged from bad nose jobs to the plight of Afghan women under the Taliban rule. He struck me as a man of the world, although what he lacked in knowledge of literature and art he made up for with his knowledge of current events.

That was the first and last time I saw him. He never asked for my number and I never asked for his. I later found out he had been in a committed relationship with a model-slash-actress. Then it dawned on me …that’s why he never asked for my number.  How could he and why would he, when a model-slash-endorser-slash-actress was sitting at home impatiently awaiting his arrival? Now I see him sans girlfriend. I wonder if they are still together.

He towers a good foot over me. His smiling eyes catch my dumbfounded stare and my lips form a reluctant smile. I’m not really certain if he remembers me. The soft breeze plays gently with his hair. “Kat, right?” Close enough, I thought, since I have been called the countless variations of my name anyway, from Kat-Kat to Kathleen.

So he remembers me. He looks at the note pad that I am holding and says “Need I ask?” I explain my little experiment to him and he says something funny which makes me laugh. It’s all coming back to me now. He was really easy to talk to, and with him I didn’t feel the need to be on my guard all the time. He is not ridiculously good-looking like Jason is, so I don’t find him intimidating.

 Honestly, I have always found it difficult to be around extremely good-looking people, as if I were in the presence of royalty and I didn’t know whether to bow or curtsy. When the elevator door opens and the only guy waiting inside happens to be Hollywood-actor-gorgeous, I blush.  Beauty intimidates me. I hate it.

Our conversation lasts for about ten minutes until it is time for all the single men to catch the garter - my second least favorite wedding tradition. The tossing of the bouquet tops my list, of course.

One by one the eligible bachelors walk to the dance floor; some nonchalantly, some eagerly, and a few of them already foaming at the mouth. Benjie places a plastic chair in the middle of the dance floor. “Malou, your throne awaits,” he says. Malou saunters to take her seat like the virgin that she is not. Amir kneels in front of her as she slowly raises her leg up, showing off the ballet skills she acquired as a young girl.

Amir brings her leg down as his hands start to probe under her dress, searching for the garter. He finally withdraws his arm from under the thin fabric. He stands up and twirls the garter around his forefinger. “Are you ready, guys?” Amir asks, and tosses the garter in the direction of the bachelors. Matt does not succeed as the last man standing. Another guy, probably a lot more desperate to tie the knot, makes a dive for the garter, which is awkward to say the least, since most of the other men ducked when Amir tossed it.

“All the single ladies are invited to come up front,” announces the female host with a fake American accent. No one gets up. The host repeats the announcement, and again, no one gets up. She checks the piece of paper she has in her hand and starts calling all of us by name.

The single women reluctantly start getting up one by one except for me. I decide to watch the whole thing from the outside looking in. It’s much safer that way. I pick up my small digital camera from the table and start clicking away as if I were the event’s official photographer. If people ask me why I didn’t join the bouquet-tossing activity, I could always tell them that I was assigned to take pictures, being Malou’s close cousin and all.

It is funny to look at all the different expressions on people’s faces. Humans are definitely the most expressive of all animals. The kind and intensity of emotions are conveyed through different facial expressions.

The problem sometimes lies in the fact that some of us don’t tell it like it is. We could be writhing in agony inside, and still manage a smile. Our emotions, our only means of nonverbally communicating the state of our inner selves to the outside world, sometimes want for sincerity. I do not really know if we are doing this on purpose or if it has just become so much more convenient not to reveal everything about us.  Is it really safer to be shrouded in a little bit of mystery? I wonder… what are we so afraid of?