Last Saturday I realised two very pertinent things:
Thing one: On Friday night I went out ‘partying’ with my friend who came down from Dubai. And since I had not gone out for the longest time, I decided to dress up like a girly-girl, high heels et al. My friend and I were accompanied by her brother and his super hot girlfriend who left us feeling frumpy even after half an hour of preening in front of the mirror.
About an hour into the night, my feet hurt and I wanted to get into my pyjamas and sleep, but I sucked it up and I kept at it.
Two hours into the night, we were surrounded by nubile young things wearing short shorts and tops that left little to the imagination. The music was fusion—of some electronic crap and some Bollywood crap. We needed a drink. At the bar, we were shocked to see that the menu said Rs.400 for a pint of beer. Understandably, we decided to leave.
But much to my chagrin, we did not go home. We moved to another bar, which had two sections— a Bollywood section and a Hip Hop section. We chose the latter and entered.
My feet were still killing me and I decided to take my shoes off and keep dancing. In doing so I also became some six inches shorter than the brothers girlfriend, who was still in her stilettos with no complains.
I didn’t feel bad though, looking around the small cramped dingy space, there was no one I even remotely wanted to impress. So off came the shoes, and out came the funky moves.
Then the club closed. But no, we didn’t go home. We went to one of his friend’s hotel room to chill and chat. Which we did for another four hours and finally reached her house (where I was spending the night) at 5:30am. It was only the next morning when I had my first revelation: I looked in the mirror and a racoon stared back at me. A racoon who was too old to party, and couldn’t feel her legs.
Thing Two: When I could feel my legs again, I picked up my stuff and trudged home. I had a shower and made myself presentable again. I had to attend a good friends wedding all the way in the other side of town. Heels on again (I really don’t learn) I made my way to the reception only to realised I did not know a single person there. I know I should have thought about this before, but I assumed that I would meet some mutual ex colleagues and therefore have some people to sit with. I was wrong.
I sat alone on a table for six. Groups at the other tables began to stare. Perhaps I looked like one of those creepy gate-crashers who like to attend weddings. An hour passed and people began to ask if they could borrow the six chairs for their ever-increasing posse.
I watched the couples first dance, I watched groups chatting, I ate alone and I occasionally got a friendly, sympathetic smile. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I made a lame excuse to the wedding couple and left.
In the cab home, I listened to sad songs and cried at my life. It was truly the worst night of my life because I have never ever felt so utterly alone.
This is when the second revelation happened: Even if your best friend in the whole world is getting married, never ever attend a wedding absolutely alone.
