tejal's hypothetical wedding

in the interest of the brevity of life, you might wish to skip over all this and plow right onto the tree-death (printable) version of the poem

I need to preface this particular piece of mental effluvium with two key bits of information about the primary players in this poem. Tejal, our protagonist, is in actual fact a sweet, funny, warm, kind person for whom I have more than a great deal of affection. By contrast, I am a jerk and a meanie (seriously - I even have the medallion to prove it).

Having said this, I should provide that essential bit of background that led me to compose the forthcoming bit of verse.

At the time, I worked in an office with Tejal and another equally wonderful woman named Wendy. Both Tejal and Wendy enjoy the odd evening out; for that matter, they don’t especially mind the even evening out either. Tejal spends a good bit of time clubbing and such, while Wendy likes nothing better than a fag and a pint with some mates at any pub with a reasonably friendly face behind the bar. I, on the other hand, much prefer the comfort of my own home, wherein I can slob around in pajama bottoms, slippers and an old sweater, bask in the loving glances of my wife and children and act like as big a goon as I wish.

Over time, as nature dictates, my propensity for dinner and television at home evolved into a reputation. I was “the guy who never went anywhere.” People stopped inviting me out because they guessed I’d say no. Which worked out fine, because they pretty much always guessed right.

Tejal in particular found this behavior incomprehensible. At work, I appeared to her to be an affable, outgoing sort of fellow. It was anathema, then, that I would sequester myself every evening and thus deny the world my congeniality. So wrong did she find this that she often questioned my motives on the matter.

One such interrogation went like this:

Tejal: So Chris, if I got married, would you come to my wedding?

Chris: It depends.

This was clearly the wrong answer. Tejal launched into a long harangue about how she couldn’t believe I wouldn’t go to her wedding after we’d been friends for so long and this was such an important day to her and so on. I stressed what I thought were a couple salient points. First, at that time, Tejal wasn’t even dating anybody, let alone engaged. Second, I didn’t say I wouldn’t go. I said, “It depends.”

For some reason, these facts did not make her feel any better. After a few more minutes spent berating me and attempting to draw Wendy over to her side of what she clearly saw as an argument, she asked a follow-up question: “What if Wendy got married? Would you go to her wedding?”

Now, I recognize that my response to this question was arguably even more ill-advised than my answer to Tejal’s first question. But those of you who have read my “Wagon Training” essay (also on this blog!) will be familiar with my honesty dysfunction. Actually, it’s more of a dishonesty dysfunction, in that I find, in moments of extreme pressure, I am incapable of lying. It is thus for this reason that I answered Tejal’s question, rather too rapidly, by saying,

“Sure.”

In my defense, there is a VERY good reason why my answers to the questions of my friends’ hypothetical weddings were discrepant. But I don’t want to go into all that now. You’ll just have to trust me. Or else buy me a case of Leffe beer (brun, please, not blond) and I’ll email it to you.

I did explain this reason to Tejal, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. For some peculiar reason, she became fixated on the idea that I would go to Wendy’s wedding without a moment’s hesitation, but I wouldn’t go to hers (again, I pointed out I didn’t say no, only “It depends,” but you can guess how far that got me).

The rest of that work day was basically one long bout of grief-taking on my part. I felt really bad about the whole situation. Not bad enough to take back anything I’d said, you understand, because after all, I am a jerk and a meanie. But bad enough to write a bad poem in Tejal’s honor.

So here it is.

Tejal's Hypothetical Wedding

or

It Depends

Tejal had planned a hypothetical wedding.

Her fake registry listed things for which she'd long yearned.

She daydreamed of make-believe crystal and bedding—

All those expensive gifts she could one day return.

Tejal dreamt up invitations to her wedding:

Invisible gold leaf on silk bond for her friends.

She thought mine to me with those words I'd been dreading:

"Chris, are you coming?" I replied, "It depends."

"I can't believe you wouldn't come to my wedding."

I stressed "It depends" is not the same thing as "No."

Still, I knew where the conversation was heading.

Before long, beaten down, I told her that I'd go.

After all, it was a non-existent wedding.

Gordon Ramsay would cook for celebs and royals

Baked organic free-range chicken with multi-grain breading

And a fish course of mackerel for Omega-3 oils.

Vera Wang herself the seamstress for the wedding,

The flowers all lilies and orchids in blossom,

The groom, that Love Island bloke the media gave such a shredding—

Not bright, but very rich, and the sex would be awesome.

It wouldn't exactly be an Indian wedding,

But Tejal's fantasy mum would be happy with that.

Her dad would coach in from some dive out in Reading,

And in every picture, dad's new wife would look fat.

And as it was an hallucinatory wedding,

I showed up wet with snow in my nicest pajamas.

I didn't drive in—I arrived there by sledding

Along with Tejal's gift: life-size robot llamas.

Tejal processed down the aisle for her imagin'ry wedding.

Eight baby seals honked as Elton sang his rewritten "Candle."

The bridesmaids gave lapdances—chaos was spreading!

Eating my chocolate pew, I watched the ensuing scandal.

A bouncy-castle reception followed the wedding.

Tejal thought Pete Tong's bagpiping discs would never end.

Then a French matador screamed, "Mon Dieu! A beheading!"

One of my llamas had bitten the head off the reverend

(He'd grow a lollipop head before his next wedding).

And the reception concluded as the sky turned maroon.

The tables walked over to see Tejal mopedding

From the reception to Lagos for their honeymoon.

Tejal imagined my thank-you note after her wedding,

Her illusion of Love's battle and her wedded bliss won.

"Will you come to the real thing?" she asked, tears almost shedding.

"It depends," I replied. "Only if it's like this one."