Cultural assault

We thought Bridezilla Weekend would have been the worst of it, Becca and I. We thought that after that terribly organized fiasco of a wedding there couldn’t possibly be anything nearly as bad as that happening again. We thought that, once everyone had heartily agreed to donning bright pink dresses for this impending wedding, that would be the end of it and we could all happily disperse to begin our respective Puce Hunts. We thought that, with someone who had a fair bit of common sense as a bride, we wouldn’t be put through as much hassle when preparing for this wedding.

We thought wrong.

Barely two weeks after the decision to wear pink dresses was made, and with barely two weeks left to go until the wedding, it was decided — or quite likely planted in her head — that qípáos would be more suitable. And so, with much grumbling and grousing (and failed attempts at subtly making her change her mind), Becca and I began a half-hearted search for what would be our bridesmaids dresses.

The experience quite possibly took several years off our lives.

Maybe it’s because, unlike most women, we abhor weddings, whether it’s attending them or being involved in them. Maybe it’s because we were drafted as, rather than asked to be, bridesmaids. Maybe it’s because we have never in our lives worn qípáos, nor intended to start anytime soon, despite being Chinese. Maybe it’s because we knew we had neither the slight built nor towering height to even try pulling them off. In any case, neither one of us was willing to waste money on something we knew we would only wear for all of five hours of our lives and never look at again afterward. Becca was prepared to just buy anything that would fit her and cost less than a facial; I was prepared to lie my way out of the wedding altogether.

After desperately trawling the streets of this city, going to seven different malls — Mid Valley Megamall, 1 Utama, and sinking as low as Sungai Wang, Bukit Bintang Plaza, Berjaya Times Square, The Summit and Amcorp Mall — we managed to find our qípáos, which completely wasted the better part of this long weekend. She found a gold one, and I was able to procure a black one, wasting RM188 (still less than a facial, depending on which salon it’s from) and RM240 respectively, and swearing vehemently that if we ever got married, we would make these insufferable frill-and-fancy girls wear dive suits and beekeeper suits to our weddings (and indeed, I would have a wedding simply for this very reason) to teach them a lesson.

I never even thought about whether or not I would be allowed to wear a black qípáo. All I could think was how relieved I was that the wildest goose chase of my life was over, and how resentful I was at having thrown money away on the whim and fancy of a typical wedding-loving woman.

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