Matchmaking Madness – Part 1

Before I begin, I know that there are many serious debates around the concept of arranged marriage. If you’re looking for nuanced, fair-minded, well-informed takes, this is the last place to find them. You’re reading a blog called Vitamin BS. That should’ve been your first hint. 

Now that we got that out of the way, here’s what you can expect. This is my journey through the arranged marriage process – in a series of posts that will make you laugh, make you cry, make you sigh, and make you rage. I haven’t written them yet, but confidence is everything. 

Last year, you had Indian Matchmaking. This year, you have written proof that my teenage self was right – I am not good at talking to boys. So, let’s dive in. 

A short note on my previous relationships

Growing up, all the boys in my life had the same nickname affectionately coined by my dad: useless fellow. My parents trusted no boy until I was 23. Any guy that looked in my direction had an agenda: to whisk me away.  

As a result, I was the living, breathing stereotype of the kid from the all-girls school who didn’t know how to behave in a co-ed setting (also known as the real world). I rehearsed everything I had to say to a boy at least five times. If a boy ever spoke to me, I would ride that high for days. And I’d rather not say how old I was at this point. 

Fast forward to a few years ago, and I mercifully became better at talking to men. I still had trouble navigating the ones I liked, though. I once let a car go first in a gridlock because the guy driving it was cute. He drove away without a second glance, leaving me in a traffic jam of my own making. 

What was I hoping to get from this little move? How was I different from the creeps who whistle at passing girls? At least those guys get the attention of the girls and the thrill of knowing that they are able to make a human head turn in their direction. I, on the other hand, get none of those things; just an extra few hours among blaring horns. 

It’s a grim day when you compare yourself with cat-callers and come off as the bigger idiot. And that’s the idiot who dove head-first into the world of arranged marriage. Hide your sons. 

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