minalisms

At a young age, I remember telling my cousins that when I find someone stellar to marry I am going to tell the whole world. I was talking about megaphones, newspaper announcements and marching bands.

Decades later, I’m a bit more modest about my plan. I’ve skipped the excessiveness but kept the sentiment.

And thanks to my immeasurably talented, artistic and geeky fiancé, I can still announce it to the world.

To all the generous friends and relatives who have been helping me plan my fall wedding, I promise you that, no matter the mounting stress, I will not become a Bridezilla.

With that being said, I will tell you that I’m a hardass when it comes to deadlines, and that just can’t be helped.

Main Entry: flu·id
Pronunciation: flü-əd
Function: adjective
Definition: subject to change or movement

If there are any plans that shouldn’t be fluid, they are wedding plans.

Guests aside, I myself am having trouble nailing down the details of how I’ll marry. But I have no doubt about who I’ll marry — that’s the simplest, loveliest, most anticipated part.

The past week in California has been an absolute blur. The eight days that I thought would be beyond sufficient to relax, meet friends and see family members have been hijacked by dreaded wedding planning. 

This is why I enjoy living in the Midwest, far from the location of My Big Fat Indian Wedding, as my best friend has dubbed it. The distance allows me to go about my merry way ignorantly hoping that either:

1) My wedding plans will magically and seamlessly and effortlessly come together exactly how I desire; or,
2) My parents will crack under the pressures of too hefty expenses and frivolous familial requests and beg me to marry Ben in a civil court.

But neither will happen. These eight days have brought me to that tragic realization. 

I am an only child of Indian parents who have been anticipating a wedding since the day I turned 22. I’ve delayed their plans for seven years. So, yes, a Big Fat Indian Wedding it will be. 

Like so many other people, I am a slave to the social networking craze. You can find me on Friendster, MySpace, LinkedIn, Plaxo and Facebook — not to mention this very neat blog. And despite my path toward ubiquitousness I was thinking not too long ago of expanding my roster.

But I’m now reconsidering my presence on our mighty World Wide Web. I’ve been fighting the urges to cancel many of the aforementioned accounts because, well, people are starting to spook me.

Newly engaged as I am, I decided a few weeks back to tweak my Facebook profile. So, I changed my “Relationship Status” to engaged, proudly declaring to every Tom, Dick and Hank that I am such a catch that one of their own wants to marry me, and to “Take that!”

It was soon after the change that I noticed ads appearing on my Facebook profile. Ads for wedding photographers and wedding magazine subscriptions and wedding rings and wedding planners and on and on. It took me a day or two to figure out that the advertisements appearing on my page were not a coincidence.

Oh, my god, I’m being stalked,” I thought. “I’m a mere data figure for marketers, a target for advertisers, who will relentlessly chase me and my money and find a way to weave themselves in to my ambitions and dreams.”

My pride over the status change has turned into paranoia. I feel violated due to my own actions. And Jill Scott’s song “Watching Me” has been on repeat in my head.

I’m under some kind of microscope.
Satellites over my head,
transmitters in my dollars.
Hawking, watching, scoping, jocking,
scrutinizing me.
Checking to see what I’m doing,
where I be,
who I see,
how and where and with whom I make my money.
What is this?”