Marriage WordThat dreaded ‘M’ word

Tired of being asked ‘When are you getting married?’, our writer ponders over how to reply without coming across as being rude.

Whoever it was that first said the girl who catches the bouquet will be the next bride had no inkling what he or she was talking about. I know this for a fact. Proof? I’ve been catching the bride’s bouquet without fail for the past 15 years – and I’m still single.

I’d probably make a better goalkeeper than a bride.

A fortune teller discussing lifelines with a client.

Is it my fault that most men I like are either homosexuals (not you, dahling), or a commitment-phobic heterosexual who refuses to set foot on Malaysian soil? Unless I take the initiative to call, write or visit, I don’t hear from him. Evidently, wooing is a concept alien to him.

Like most singletons, I’m tired of everyone asking me the same old question – “When is it your turn? Aren’t your eggs drying up?”

When I tell them there are no worthy men available, they say I’m just picky. Indeed the pressure to get married comes from all quarters – friends, relatives, colleagues, even my boss, who tells me that I am – surprise, surprise – fussy.

Mom is not proud of having an unmarried daughter living with her. She puts on this pitiful face every time her friends ask,

“How come your daughter is still single?” Like she’s committed a crime.

When I go on the occasional date, the whole household reverberates with excitement.

If you happened to call at that very moment, you would think there was a wedding on the next day.

The trials and tribulations of being in love and getting married are film fodder. (Above) Renee Zellweger as eternal singleton Bridget Jones mulls over whether to continue dating her love rat boss and hope for marriage.

Palmists, astrologers, psychics … dear Mom has seen them all in her search for a son-in-law, and continues to do so.

Once she even had a prayer ceremony performed, without my knowledge, to cleanse me of the “evil” that must be plaguing me. Yes, she agreed to part with RM2,000 to engage the services of this fortune teller a colleague recommended.

Mind you, this soothsayer from India was conducting his business sitting outside a grocery shop.

He promised to scatter the “evil ashes” in the river, and I was advised to wear a talisman and eat something similar to ghee balls, after which suitors would, without doubt, lay “siege to our home”.

In a few months, he claimed, I would be happily married with a bun in the oven.

Mom walked into my room carrying the ghee balls, and meekly told me, “It’s for your own good. All your aunties are concerned. I’m not going to be around forever, so who will look after you?”

Whatever patience Buddhism taught me vanished when I learnt of the ridiculous amount she had paid.

I made my mother eat the balls.

Did she find a new husband (bless my late Pops)? Nope.

And that swindler? Probably sipping chai in Chennai and boasting of how easy it was to make $$$ in Malaysia.

Then, relatives tried matchmaking me with a gold-digger (his job was to hunt for gold mines around the region). Our horoscopes matched. Apparently, I was set for life. I’d get free jewellery for life, my best friend teased.

However, when he dropped by with his parents, my family was stumped. He was about 10 times my scrawny size and fit to be a sumo wrestler. Polite conversation ensued, although the groom never spoke to me. Since journalism is not considered a respectable profession among the Indians, they never followed up. After that episode, Moms vowed never to matchmake for me again.

My fellow singletons, it appears, have it only slightly better.

Take my friend Christine, a counsellor who only dates men with a full head of hair and no pot belly. Now 38, she’s been having a long-distance relationship for four years. She finds it annoying when people ask her where’s the darn diamond. Her American beau has yet to propose, possibly because Christine insists that he fly in to take an STD and AIDS test!

“It’s not that I don’t trust him. I want to be sure I don’t get afflicted with any diseases. I don’t know if he’ll propose but at my age, I won’t settle for just anyone. He has to have a steady income, be domesticated, and have no emotional baggage. If he’s a widower with kids, that’s okay. I’ll buy one and get the kids for free!” she jokes.

Besides, Christine argues, she doesn’t have the stamina to run after energetic toddlers anymore at her age. And she’s terrified of labour pains.

Financial planner Lisa, also 38, is perfectly happy living with her partner of four years. Fortunately Lisa’s parents are cool with the arrangement since they know divorce rates are pretty high these days and there’s just no sense in rushing to add to the statistics.

When people ask Christine when she’s getting married, she just shrugs and says: “I don’t know.” Or refuses to answer.

“I don’t need to be married to make me complete. My philosophy is to be single and happy, not married and miserable. When people tell me I’m getting too old to have a baby, I point out that Madonna had a kid at 44. Besides, I don’t need to be married to have a baby, and that usually shuts them up,” she says.

Kids are not high on the priority list for Lisa, who feels she just doesn’t have the maternal instinct.

“I have high expectations of what a mother should be like, and I don’t believe I have that skill. My boyfriend thinks that’s not a valid reason for not wanting kids. It’s expensive to raise children, and if I have them now, it will cost a million ringgit for the child’s education.”

Just last week, I packed my shoes and was heading out for a gym workout when Moms yelled, “See, if you had kids, you wouldn’t be able to run off like this!”

“I’d just take them along,” I coolly responded.

The truth is, I’m content with my routine at present. I’m blessed with nieces, nephews, many wonderful friends and family for company. Yeah, yeah, I don’t have a man dangling on my arms to dance the waltz or have a romantic dinner with, but surely, eventually, there will be someone at the old folks home, right?

My former landlady, who turned 89 this year, dedicated her life to being a teacher and concert pianist but found it tough finding a mate with a similar passion for music. But Sylvia is finally dating a 92-year-old at her retirement home.

“Who says it’s too late? I’m almost 90 and have just begun dating. He’s a nice guy and seems to enjoy my music when he has earplugs on. At least he keeps awake while I play! We have all our meals together and who knows how the relationship will progress,” says this optimistic octogenarian.

Now, when well-meaning uncles and aunties ask me the million-dollar “m” question, I simply smile and quip, “When you find me a man.” That should put them to useful work instead of indulging in idle chatter.