Something only semi-autobiographical...

The sun was bright and the sky was clear. The only dark clouds were in my life.
I stood helpless before my very large very full (and might I add-very neat) cupboard, highly intimidated, and my heart sank further.
I decide it was worth one more try.
“Mum.” I ventured.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet? Go!!”
“Mum.” I really didn’t have too much hope at this point of time but I steeled myself to continue anyway. “Do I really need to come?”
“These earrings don’t go with this dress, do they?”
“I mean, it’s not like I know these people well.” Or like them.
“How about this pair?”
I trudged on. “I could really use this time.” To watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer. “And I think I’m starting a headache. Maybe it’s viral fever. Maybe it’s contagious.”
In the middle of all the dressing up, Mum gave a quick but very obvious get-dressed-now-or-get-into-big-trouble look.
At least I tried.

Back before my overwhelming cupboard, I was in no better mood. Sheesh! You would think an almost sixteen year old would have some say in deciding her social life (or the lack of it as the case may be). I couldn't believe that I was going to waste a good Sunday afternoon at some useless lunch and then lose the evening trying to recover from the ordeal. I was going to miss Spike. And the Sunday Special movies. Thank God it wasn’t the Race Weekend. If I flunk this year it’s all my parents’ fault.

The red skirt or the black one? The red one made me look taller; the black “goes with your lovely eyes” (silly sales-woman). I groan some more. Mum wanted red, Dad wanted black. I picked out my blue jeans. I wondered if I should accessorize with my skull chain but I really wasn’t in any position to listen to another lecture on being difficult “even at your age”. (Jeez, if you can’t be difficult at my age, when can you?) In front of the mirror, I decided I looked fine; a remarkable result from someone whose heart really wasn’t in it. Mum in her critical appraisal, lodged a couple of objections that were paid absolutely no notice to. You have to hand it to my family for trying. I passed with a ‘somewhat satisfactory’ grade I suppose for she only asked me why I hadn't combed my hair. “I have,” I lied. Big difference it would make since I was going to stick my head out of the car window anyway.
“I don’t like the colour of your lipstick.”
I acted sufficiently scandalized. “Firstly this is just gloss. And how could you even think for one moment that I would ever poison my lips with anything that had fish scales in it or had been cruelly tested on poor, defenceless animals kept in truly despicable conditions? Besides, I’m allergic to anything else.”
Damn! Maybe I should have come out in some horrendous allergy then I could have stayed at home. Now it was too late.
Mum had one of those looks she gets before she starts a conversation which she feels isn't going to go her way, so I was ready for a fight when she said, ”Erm…Yes, that reminds me. You aren’t going to make a fuss about food. If there’s something you don’t want to eat, you shall neither stamp your foot nor pretend to throw up nor throw it off the table nor begin a half-hour monologue on the virtues of vegetarianism.”
In spite of myself, I had to smile. I had a feeling Mum was recalling an eventful –shall we say—evening with certain friends who never invited me to their house ever again. That was a long time ago, and I would like to think that my protests against eating animals have since then taken a more mature and serious turn.
“Ok fine, I’ll won’t go beyond making the painful cries of the cow before it was slaughtered.”
Mum obviously didn’t get my joke. She still thinks that if she lets me out of her sight for a few minutes I’ll park myself outside KFC with other nude PeTA protesters.
Not saying I won’t….

Finally anyway we were ready to leave. Fifteen minutes late and I take full credit for that.
I spent the first half of the car journey to may-I-remind-you the place I never wanted to go to in the first place, being a regular ray of sunshine. I sulked magnificently and replied in the curtest of monosyllables. When Mum and Dad caught on to me and pretended I didn’t exist, I decided I shouldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. This, I thought, was the best time to sing the choicest break-up songs ever in a mournful, sloshed voice. And I insisted there was no need to turn the car radio down either.
I don’t know why the baby in the car next to us at a traffic light immediately started bawling louder than I was mourning. Mum, while still valiantly pretending that I didn’t exist, took it upon herself to give its mother a think-this-is-bad-wait-till-she’s-sixteen look.
Here I was, spreading the joy of Sabbath around and I’m told to shut up, in no uncertain terms.

I think I was pretty much resigned to my fate and slinked further and further down into my seat as we reached closer to our destination. Mum’s idea of cheering me up, “You know you’ll have company of your age. Their son is coming too.”
Thanks Mum, for reminding me exactly what I had been trying to block out since the last time I met that brat, many years ago. He poured a glass of coke on me because I refused to be the kidnapped old lady that his GI Joes were to rescue. He broke a vase and said I did it. I slapped him and he cried for fifteen minutes. Silly little boys grow up to be silly big boys for all I knew. Then again, he never really had a chance—who calls their child ‘Bunty’ and expects him to have an inkling of sense.
With a very audible sigh cum groan, I went back to practicing my fake-smile face and perfecting a believable “Pleased to meet you too.”

We were there. Much too soon if you ask me. I counted to ten, took a deep breath.
“This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall…Hello Auntie…Why, thank you, Uncle…Well, in all fairness, I have done some growing taller since we last met…Of course I remember Bunty…” Oh.
Oh.
That’s Bunty?
That’s Bunty.
Apparently silly little boys can grow into rather—ahem—smart looking big ones. Ones that smile nicely at you and hold open doors for you. (!)

Dammit. I knew I should have worn the skirt.

Karunya