For a Wedding and a Funeral

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So be it. There is a wedding to attend so that the happy couple could come to my funeral one day. That's what is all about. But there is also a fuss in attending it: Wearing the (not so) traditional outfit. Yes, that's right. Kebaya.

I've got to wake at 4 (since the vow was at 8 and I was among the first to be tortured by make up and hairspray. They can't wait to be marry, those future man and wife) while I could closed my eyes at 2; hung around with sassy aunts (whom I didn't know exactly from whose side they came from) commenting how big I was and how ridiculuous I would be amidst the ellegant, charming, sparkling guests and bride and groom (and gasped in seeing how perfectly and femininely different I was after all); dressed up in tight clothes and fancy slippers that had made my limbs impaired; stood still and kept my big smiles ready for the visitors while some unknown, distant, mid-aged uncles feast on my bare shoulders; keep my spit in my mouth seeing 'out of reach' food everywhere (because I hardly eat anything since two days before); and almost shaking from the nicotine and caffeine addiction I've got but couldn't, considering the 'forbidden law' applied in this silly circle of 'DOs' and 'DON'Ts'.

Yet, I've made it, though some funny, (again) distant aunts thought that marriage was a race and I've got to be one of the participants who was hoped to join it. Very soon. And some of them even, shamelessly, offer their sons to get to know me well. Haha! They'll be shocked to death, Budhe! Especially when I asked them to torture ourselves slowly, painfully, and mercilessly with cigarettes to death. And you can't have grandchildren since the concept of laboring and pregnancy are beyond my mind.

It was really a difficult task to politely ask people to come when I'm dead.


*sigh*

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