Wedding #2 belongs to my very best friend, Raj.
We went to school together and found one another in the party hearty world that is the haven of the university student. Scores of fresh-from-home teenagers were boogie woogie-ing the stench of the suburbs away, when the crowd parted, and first I beheld the glory that was Raj. He was foreign and naïve; I was political and drunk. We hit it off.
It didn’t take long for us to be thick as thieves. Through the ups, downs and passport stamps of our eleven years and counting friendship, we have managed to stay blissfully close and immature in a way that only the closest of people can understand.
Raj is sinfully sweet and painfully exotic. Raj is also fabulously gay. He flew out of the closet about a year after we’d met and never looked back. Of course this made him better than ever; now I have a pinch date AND a pedicure buddy. He, in turn, adopted my cycle and got sympathy cramps.
Raj is also in love, engaged, and like most Bridezillas, raking himself over the proverbial coals for the perfect Martha Stewart wedding. A wedding that he is determined I will plan.
Being a girl, I love parties. I even love to plan parties. Being a girl without a biological clock, I don’t like weddings. I mean, how many 300 guest sweet table bouquet toss garter throwing first dance fiascos do you really have to go through before losing your marbles?
But I do love my Raj, so I’ll bite my tongue, and better common sense. I’m going to help him through this no matter how many times he bothers me. No matter how often he tosses “Hor d’Oeuvres for Dummies,” or “The Art of Napkin Folding” at me. No matter how much he pesters, whines, or calls me hyperventilating at 4am – which he will – I will be there, I will be ready, I will be a friend.
I need a drink.
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