It’s all about stages. That’s all. Man goes through several stages in life, and one of the preconditioned milestones through the quagmire of existential race… is marriage. The body clock gives timely reminders for shaping the mind to adapt to each stage. For a while now, my parents, among others, have been raining on me to rush to the alter. What they don’t realize is that my body clock broke down in my adolescent stage. Broke down completely, and nobody really noticed. I’ve been trying to repair it ever since I found out about the damage, but I haven’t been really rushing the job, though.
So I’ve been dodging the inevitable through random squirming, counter-offensive tactics, slipaway maneuvers, and similar procedures, but I doubt if it’s going to last long now. Mom has commissioned my brother to take a snap of me which they can give to some matrimonial site/ agent/ somebody. Considering that we live together and that he sleeps with a camera in close reach, I have to accept that he’s going to be difficult to dodge.
I don’t mean to imply that he’s got his task cut out for him, mind you. On any given day, the Hammy hair is disheveled, the eyes are bloodshot, and the jaw is riddled with random sprouts of ungroomed follicular protrusions. The impulsive reaction of the sober girl would more likely be to ring up the anti-terrorist wing than to nod agreement to a walk down the aisle.
But he’s a persistent little brother, he is. So it seems like the dreaded snap is bound to hit the marketplace soon enough. And this means it’s time for phase 2 of the master plan.
Yes. I have a phase 2. Always did. I’m an Engineer.
Back when the nuptial talks and negotiations started… well over a year ago, mom had indicated that I would have the absolute power to veto any candidate as I pleased; I’ve never had absolute power on anything before. I just hope it doesn’t go to my head.
She had also asked me to specify what I’d look for in my partner; so that the infamous search can be channelized… a checklist of sorts…
There are, as always, two courses of action I can pursue in this matter
- I can think it through and provide a mature, realistic, helpful, logical set of guidelines and parameters that can streamline a potentially rewarding union.
- I can engineer stumbling blocks of embellished hyperbole that can extend my parole for an unpredictable amount of time.
Following ONE of these paths (Notice how I’m cunningly avoiding specifying which one) I have made the following checklist for my unwitting mate.
- Drop-dead-gorgeous – You’d think I’m just playing around with words; rejuvenating a phrase that is gradually retiring to clichéhood. I’m not. I’ll insist on documented proof of at least three instances where people have clutched their chest and fell down dead on the spot right after seeing her, and I’ll need that attested by the presiding judge. Hers should be the definitive face that routinely launches a thousand ships every weekend (towards… not away from… I’m careful about loopholes like that); a beauty pageant shoo in, except, you know, not as dumb… which brings me to the second point.
- Madame smartypants – The envy of Marilyn vos Savant, she should be the kind that kills spare time by collecting PHDs and harvesting nuclear energy from leftover breadcrumbs. Credible scientists must already be pondering over the possibility that she has spontaneously grown a spare brain.
- The definitive fast tracker – Steadfast and eager at her job, she should be the leading cause of job insecurity and extenuating inferiority complexes amongst her bosses, particularly in light of her bumper sticker that reads “Bosses are the stepping stones to success”. She doesn’t break glass ceilings; she melts them with intense and aggressive stares.
- Boundless ambition – The quintessential go-getter, she should exude power and confidence; the kind of person who grinds her own coffee beans… with her teeth; arm wrestles with crocodiles, gorillas, and desolate bosses… all mere practice for her primary objective – global domination.
- Unbridled sense of humor – by which I mean she should get or pretend to get all my jokes and frequently roll off the pavement convulsed with laughter when I make a goofy face or a stupid play on words. This shall, of course, be tested in broad daylight.
- Compulsive headbanger – She must be a diehard devotee of rock music. She should at least have seriously thought of getting a guide dog for herself because she often gets lost in music. Ideally, she should have knocked down a couple of guys when she was headbanging to Linkin Park’s ‘In the end’… accidentally, of course.
- Hollywood nutcase – She should be the edge-of-the-seat, wide eyed, popcorn munching movie crazed Hollywood junkie. This way, we’ll have something to talk about. She should essentially puke when she sees Bollywood rip offs.
- Hair loom – At the current rate of population drop on the Hammy noggin, it may not be wise to have her hair loom too long. She shouldn’t be bald, but she also shouldn’t carry so much hair around that I’m tempted to hide stationary in there.
I also wanted to include ‘faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in single bounds’, but that seemed to be taking it too far. I’ll reserve that for phase 3.
:D
