marriedgirl

Posts Tagged ‘The Wedding’

The Feeling of Marriage (Part 1)

In Getting Married, Main on August 30, 2010 at 10:49 am

One of the things that really irked MG immediately after her wedding was the constant question: “Oh! How does it feel to be married?”

Um, how do you think? It feels no different than yesterday, or the day before! Yes, MG is legally allowed to sleep next to a a boy (a real boy! a REAL BOY WITH A PENIS!) in her own bed, and no one can say a damn thing about it, but seriously? She’s not about to tell the likes of you all about that! Nor do you want to hear it! Nor do you want to hear that MG feels like she has faint alarm bells going off in the back of her head!

What is the proper answer to this kind of query anyway? MG wasn’t a duckling before her marriage, so it isn’t that she suddenly blossomed into a swan the moment she took seven circumambulations around a holy fire and gained a husband! It’s as if the expectations are that now that you can have a legitimate baby, you yourself have changed! Maturity has arrived with the opening of the chastity belt! You absolutely must be feeling different!Alive! THRILLED TO BE MARRIED! Woooo!

And if all you want to hear is “yes, it feels absolutely and completely fantastic now that my life’s expectations are FULFILLED BY BEING MARRIED”, then please, spare MG the trouble of answering and just ask the rhetorical question.

Sigh.

You are now supposed to sit with the ladies and make idle conversation about kids and husband habits, and the color of your sofa! Wooooo!

Waiting to Exhale

In Getting Married, Main on October 29, 2009 at 3:59 pm

When I got married earlier this year, it was a three ring circus. Perhaps 30-ring might be better, considering how long the festivities went on for.  I enjoyed most of them, save for the two or three really ugly moments I had with my parents. Which, considering the kind of show they wanted to put on, is only to be expected.

(You see, show in our family, and a lot of other Indian families that are planning rigmarole weddings, usually means pressure. Pressure=strain. Strain= hit low, hit nastily at the people you are closest to. This = ugly ugly moments.)

And during those days of being in the silk and gold covered bosom of my large, lovely family, I wasn’t given any sort of pre-marital advice, sexual or otherwise. (Thank god.  I don’t think I would’ve survived the embarrassment if my mother or any other female relative had tried. Yeah, I said female. No, I didn’t mention male. No, males do not discuss s-e-x with younger females in my clean-nosed virginal female family. Can I get a loud chee-chee with the very idea?) Maybe it was because I was having a Love Marriage, or maybe it was just one of those stereotypical things that we don’t do- being extremely well educated and all that, either way, it didn’t happen.

Somehow, though, in all the anticipation, and all the preparation, and all the almost-dehydrations (this was one helluva hot summer wedding, with definite power cuts during the sticky! humid! nights!), somewhere along the line, I took a deep breath and didn’t let go.  I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know when I did it. I didn’t even realize that I was holding my breath until recently. And it wasn’t even one of those ton-of-bricks realizations. It came to me as I jumped into the pool again. The chlorine woke me up a little. It came to me when I had a performance evaluation recently. Even the euphoria of a good review only lasted for half a day. And it sort of began to become a realization. A gradual sense of being under anesthesia.  Everything seems fuzzy and sort of nondescript. I know I’m alive, but I’m going about my days as if I were in a dream. I’m not zesty, I’m not sad, I        just am. I feel like my entire system is waiting for something. Something? Something. If anything, I feel a little frustration. But why? For what reason?

It’s almost like I married Him, and now I’ve lost myself.  I’m sure it’s only temporary, but in the meantime, I’m waiting for real life to begin again.

Waiting to exhale,

MG.

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