There are very few things in life I know for certain: I have way too many lipsticks (not my fault); I look like an idiot in harem pants, and that weddings are exhausting. I look forward to this affair with the same enthusiasm I might if I were going to a Metallica concert (see: not at all). I’m only a few days into a big fat Punjabi wedding and trust me, you could probably bury a man in my dark circles. This is what it’s like: You’re out to have a good time, you’re not feeling attacked right now. The DJ takes over his console, your hairography is fabulous, hips are moving, you feel so pretty, so free. Even your dad, who never dances, is bopping along.
You wonder how you got so lucky to have such amazing friends and family while sipping your fi fth drink, aka: the last one you can have while keeping your head on your shoulders. What could go wrong? Spoiler alert: everything. Wait for some super-passive-aggressive argument to break out when someone accuses someone else carrying a knock-off LV bag. PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW. Everyone are wiping eyes at how cute the couple is, trying to stop their Too Faced, Better than Sex from rolling down their faces. Someone else comes back with kamikaze shots — the fi rst productive thing that’s happened all night.
You start laughing at how ridiculous your cry faces are and move on. Why were you fi ghting in the fi rst place? Does anyone even remember? No Punjabi wedding is complete without a baraat, and you can think of this as a moving club on the road with one guy sitting on a boredlooking horse. And what else happens at clubs, with or without a horse? A barrage of makeup fi xing — your neighbour’s, mother- in-law’s, aunt’s, sister’s, the wife judging you, and the occasional broken heel. Let me provide you with my dad’s simple solution for when your heel breaks mid-wedding: break the other one too and walk around like a duck (FYI: this has been personally tried and is not recommended).
Also, your BFFS at the event are not your long-lost cousin who’s been removed four times or your sister’s neighbour’s uncle’s daughter, but actually blotting paper and compact. Use it, keep it, throw it around like confetti. Here’s another trend I noticed. It’s called Cake Makeup aka Cakeup aka Please-Find- Me-A-Blender aka I-Just-Emptied-Half-My- Foundation-Bottle. Load up on the highlighter to fi t in, and feel like a beautiful disco ball under the heavy lights. Oh look, you’re glowing! At this point everything’s a hazy, whiskey- tinted blur. So without removing any of your makeup, pass out with one shoe still on into a deep, deep sleep. All that’s certain is that you’re going to wake up reallllllly hungover with a bunch of texts from your mum about your behaviour last night. Whatevs. You’re ready to do it all over again the next day. (The writer’s interests include oversharing, wine and period dramas)