Against all odds

We are speeding down the road and I have already checked my watch five times. The kids have been shouted at three times in the last fifteen minutes and because I am not driving, I am monopolizing the business of shouting. When post one scolding, the irrepressible six-year-old starts off with yet another question, hubby, who believes he can handle this better than I can, tells her quickly, “Don’t talk to your mother. Talk to me!  Talk to me!”

We make it to the venue of the wedding with half an hour to spare, thanks to a gross miscalculation, on my husband’s part, of the time required to get there. However, when I step out of the car, feeling like a flamboyant success, this detail seems to be utterly inconsequential. What is of cosmic significance is the fact that we have made it to a wedding – ahead of time. I beam at my cutiest, beautiest, spousiest spouse.  We are a team. We did it. Nothing can stop us now.

Our success is especially sweet considering that this morning we had to deal with all the usual, near-insurmountable odds that stack themselves against us whenever there is a wedding in sight.

The last-minute potty for the kid or kids. The socks that will not stay in pairs.
The kajal that will itch but give me that ‘free spirit’ look. Hence, 15 minutes wasted debating with myself whether to have dreamy, itchy eyes, or whether to go without.

The shoes that were bought at the last minute and which I bought despite knowing that they were probably too tight. That’s because both Mr. Salesperson and Mr. Spouse thought they were alright. How many more weddings will I hobble through before I learn my lesson?

The unputdownable book that invariably finds its way to my husband’s hands two days before the wedding.  I almost always find myself teetering on the edge of my threshold for patience when we have ten minutes and he has ten pages left. Often, I fall over the edge and the ensuing fight takes up a good half an hour of our preparation time.

The toothbrush that was sternly packed into my suitcase but broke free somehow to go for its wedding morning rendez-vous.  I could use my husband’s which I usually end up doing. However, that’s only after the time-consuming process of smothering my reservations on the matter. These reservations persist even after ten years of married life and sharing more than toothbrushes in a crunch.

The hair that’s always raring to go.

The  accessories. Oh, help! The ear-rings that jump out of my nervous fingers when I try to coax them into six-year-old earlobes; the delicate chains that snap when I exert a little too much pressure. I can’t possibly make them wear heavy gold necklaces but anything that’s not gold would make me a rebel without a cause - maybe even a bit of an activist -  to many members of the extended family.
 

The decorative thingies for the hair that refuse to stay on for more than ten seconds flat. At the end of each of those ten seconds, there is much whining, screwing up of faces, searching in the most ineffective manner and so on until they are found …  and lost ten seconds later.

The jocks that never submit to us – to our frantic searches for them - without a good, long fight.

The unshaven underarms and the unshaven chin - mine and his, respectively.

And when we are finally ready to leave, there’s the one that usually nails yet another round of defeat for us – The Lost Wedding Invite.“Where are we supposed to go?! When does it start?!!” `