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I just slept with the most amazing person ever. Okay, well, when I say slept with I mean that I shared a bed with her in a very platonic way. But nonetheless, she did give me butterflies in the sense that she was just so incredibly talented that it made me nervous to be around her.

I spent this past weekend at a friend’s house for a Girlz Weekend (yes, the “z” is intentional). What was interesting about this gathering was that the women there were all really talented, successful, power-women who were at the same time so fun, funny, charming and warm. This is not something one finds often, but this weekend I met not just one but twelve such women.

So back to my bed-mate. D is a tall, gorgeous red-head with an intellect to match her beauty. By the time she was 23 she had started her own international business, which she only left to conquer the world of finance. Along the way, she stopped for her MBA and in the meantime founded a zoo. She lived in the far east for a number of years and had much success in her career. Now, she is a wife and mother and has seemingly achieved a great work-life balance. Talking to her, it all sounded so easy-breezy. I left the weekend in absolute awe of her.

This got me to thinking (in an odd way, I know) about all the people I have shared a bed with in my adult life, platonic or otherwise. Of all the men I have dated, and women friends I have been close enough to feel comfortable with sharing a bed, how often did I feel in so inspired by the person next to me as to cause that same feeling of nervousness+admiration I had this weekend?

Truth is, a few times. But in all but one case, it was a woman, a female friend. And in the one case it was a man, even that relationship was strictly platonic.

What does this say about the men I meet? Or, even more importantly, who I have brought home with me? What does this say about me? My female friends are all incredibly talented and inspiring women, but my romantic relationships have been with men have been…well, just eh. Some very successful, most very kind and sweet, but really none who live up to the combination of talent, ambition and warmth of the women in my life.

Anyway, I was just struck by this thought today. People often ask me what I am looking for in a guy. Lately, I have been saying Indiana Jones, partly for the comedic effect. After all, there are no specific criteria.

I’d like to believe that when I meet him I’ll know it, because, like the twelve incredible ladies I met this weekend, he will inspire in me a feeling of awe.

When I was four years old, I figured out what the deal was with Christmas, and I was all in. What little immigrant Indian girl growing up in America wouldn’t be willing to trade in her Hinduism for the sake of presents? Little boys, too – after all, I have no doubt that my older brother was instrumental in convincing my parents to buy a three-foot tall plastic Christmas tree to put up for the holidays. Little did my parents realize it then, in the seasonal aisle of Kmart circa December 1982, that once you put up the tree, you have to buy into the presents, too. Every year.

So began our tradition in which my brother and I would fish out the old Christmas tree box from the basement (which seemed to find its way deeper into the crawl space every year) about a week before Christmas and decorate it with whatever was around. We didn’t care too much about the tree, but we knew that once it was up and the lights were going, come Christmas morning we would find something under there for us. Our parents, never wanting to disappoint, would manage to get at least a gift or two for each of us. It was never much, but it was fun, and in some way made us feel more American.

Then, in 1992, my brother left for college so I was alone in forcing Christmas upon my family. Despite my burgeoning teenager angst about religion and not knowing what to believe in, I went down to that basement and found the old box, lugged it to the family room and put up the Christmas tree. It didn’t feel the same without my brother, but I did it, anyway.

Christmas morning, I woke up before anyone else and ran to the tree with a little flutter of excitement in my stomach. But when I got there…

There it was, unwrapped and slightly crumpled — a solitary bag of Skittles candy.

***

I was thinking about this today when a colleague asked me if I had a nice Christmas.

The year of the Skittles – that was the last Christmas of my childhood. I never put up the tree again. For many years after, I was all bah humbug about Christmas.  You know how it goes – too commercial, wrong message, Santa is creepy, traveling horror stories, darn tourists overtaking the city. I admit it, I scoffed at Christmas.

A few years ago, when my oldest niece turned four and Christmas had to be addressed by the family again, I went along with it for the sake of the children. But something funny happened… I started to love Christmas.

We have a new tradition now on Christmas morning, an indoor picnic breakfast complete with assorted crunchy Indian snacks, freshly fried pakoras, and of course chai tea – all under a beautifully decorated and festive, eight foot tall (although still plastic -come on now let’s be practical) tree.

Whatever is said about Christmas, for me it all culminates in that morning. Because those few hours when we are all together, sipping chai, eating mini samosas, and sharing presents – those hours are just amazing. Everyone is laughing, excited, and filled with sincere joy and happiness. It’s cozy, it’s peaceful, it’s just so fun.

Son-of-a-gun, Kris Kringle got me. Again.

Ten years ago, I was in Boston at an art gallery with a friend of mine. I remember that night so well for some reason.  I recall  we had an in-depth ( and very intellectual, I’m sure) conversation about art history. There we were, two undergraduates from a school whose motto is “nerd pride,” analyzing art and asserting our views on topics much beyond our scope of knowledge. We were standing in front of a large canvas with a screen-printing of a young man in a suit who was being weighed down by time. How, you ask? Ok, well, that part is hard to describe, but suffice it to say the artist’s message was clear.

I thought it was humbug, and my stance was that contemporary art was just recycled trash. I know, I know, such brash naïveté…but that’s the point of this tale. Back then my life seemed so figured out. Finish college, go to medical school at the end of which I would get married, buy a house and then have my children somewhere between residency and saving the world one patient at a time. I couldn’t relate to the imperfect. I couldn’t imagine how your life could be so bad that you would feel weight down by the passing of time. Things only get better, after all, right?

Well, I can imagine it now. This last decade has been a little different from what I was planning that night at the gallery. Ok, a lot different. That’s been weighing on my mind as we count down the end of 2010.

For the last ten years, I almost always have celebrated New Year’s Eve in some way, most often at a big party. Most often with my closest friends. I’ve been lucky that way. And we always make resolutions about how we’re going to make ourselves and our lives better. Something to look forward to. Looking forward, and not looking back – that’s what New Year’s is all about.

But this year is different, I think. This year marks my tenth year out of college, which I guess means my tenth year as an adult. It’s an interesting transition point, I think. I’m struggling to decide how much I can cling to the last decade, and how much I need to shed and let natural transitions happen. I think that is what this New Year’s will be about. Not just making resolutions, but taking stock of what exactly is going on. Maybe come up with a game plan. I feel like I muddled my way through my 20s mainly driven by emotions. This decade, maybe some more focus. After all, it took me about this long to really feel that I have a sense of myself.

Did you all figure that out sooner? I’m jealous…

Ok, time to get to it.

I’m going to do something I tried really hard not to do. Blog about what I’ve been up to lately with nothing particular to say. Mainly because I have to (re)start somewhere. So here it is. What have I been doing? Working. A little bit of traveling. There was a lot of family time recently, I guess mainly due to Diwali. I’ve been reading a book that is really good and thoroughly engrossing, but so hard to read it sometimes actually hurts my head (Midnight’s Children). Working more. Not exercising but thinking about doing it a lot, and that takes up a good amount of time let me tell you.

Yes, so, I have mostly been working. I have been at my clinic now for 6 months, and while it has been an amazing experience, it has also been a lot more stressful than I had imagined it would be. As a resident and then in my first job after residency, I worked in the hospital taking care of children who were acutely ill. Something major had happened to them – injury, disease, surgery – and they were in the hospital to get over that more precarious phase of their illness until they were stable. So, for that position, I was happy if under my care the patients didn’t get seriously worse, or die. It’s morbid, I know, but if my patients stayed alive through my shift that was good. And if they got better, well, that was great. Either way, when I left, another doctor was tagged in and at least until my next shift it was someone else’s job to keep the patients alive.

This new job is different. I don’t worry about someone croaking on me, but that rather I’m going to miss something. You see, it’s not my job to make them better; it’s my job to prevent them from even getting sick. Or if there is some sickness brewing, that I am able to recognize it and take care of it before it becomes a major issue. It’s harder than it seems. And there is no one to tag in. It’s just me, my decisions, my recommendations, my knowledge and skill. In some ways that’s more stressful, I think. There’s a bigger weight on my shoulders now. And I’m still trying to figure out my boundaries. How much can I intervene? In the face of poverty and broken homes and language barriers, can the patients even follow my recommendations? I have a lot of knowledge about children’s physiology, but how can I apply it to the person sitting in front of me and his unique set of obstacles to good health. Indeed, it was easier in some ways to deal with the protocols of intensive hospital care than the nebulousness of primary care.

I have been working. I have been trying to actively avoid self reflection…am a little afraid of what I’ll come up with. Truth is, I see things that are hard to deal with. Bad things happen to poor children. And most of the time I can’t do much about it. Or at least it feels that way. Sometimes it’s better to not process what you see. Be scientific about it, not emotional. Sometimes it’s better to force yourself to be numb. Ok, maybe not better, but necessary. It’s necessary. It’s selfish.

Uh, that’s starting to border on self-reflection.

When I had night shifts in residency, I often would call my cousin as I walked to work just to chat a little about how our days were. At the end of the call, she would always say, “Have a good shift! Save some lives.”

That always made me feel good. Save some lives…I don’t know if I really can, but I’ll keep trying.

Last night, standing on the platform for the 6 train at Union Square, I was staring down the track looking for the train, silently reprimanding myself for not leaving my apartment a few minutes earlier.  In New York, the train always seems to be running slow when you need it most to be there fast. And everyone believes that if you just stare hard enough down the long dark tunnel, the train will sense your impatience and get there faster.

I was running late for a blind date, and was worried that my date would assume I was one of those perpetually tardy people. After all, there’s no second chance at a first impression, right? Should I make some lame joke about Indian Standard Time? I was thinking to myself. But don’t they have that same joke for all ethnicities? Do they have it for Jews?

Still staring down the platform. Now I feel myself starting to sweat a little, not just because I’m getting antsy, but also because the subway platforms have no air conditioning or ventilation so basically you’re in a sauna. I can literally feel my hair starting to frizz. Why did I even leave it down? I’m going to look like Diana Ross by the time I get there.  Did I put on deodorant? Shit! Oh wait, I did. Ok, good, at least I won’t smell bad.

Did I mention this was a blind date? Yes, I did. Number….who knows, I lost count. Seriously, where is the train? I looked at the time, I had ten minutes. And I still had a short train ride, an avenue and two streets of walking ’till I would get there. I was feeling a little stressed, and then I started getting annoyed that I was stressed. Why? Why do I do this to myself? It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were just supposed to meet someone without even trying and live happily ever after together. No one told me about all this bullshit blind dating effort you have to put in first.

The thing is, I’m really open to being set-up by friends. Because I know that it rarely happens that way where you just live your life and you meet your future husband in the grocery store as you both reach for the same box of locally grown organic granola cereal. At this point over half the couples I know started as set-ups or internet dates. So that’s why I agree to it, these dates, and overall am grateful that someone cared enough to set me up with his friend/colleague/dog walker/parole officer.

Until, of course, I find myself late to the date, standing on the horribly stale and hot platform waiting for a train that just doesn’t seem to be coming. I decided my telepathic staring powers were not making the train appear on the track, so I finally look away. In the corner of my eye I see a man walking towards me. Suddenly he stops short. I look up — it’s my ex. Fiancé. Awesome.

We start to make small talk. What are you doing here? How’s work? It’s the kind of banter where you’re both saying words but still a little too frazzled to fully process any of the conversation. Suddenly the train is there, and we’re getting on, sitting down next to each other. We haven’t seen each other for years. Please don’t ask me where I am going. Of course I would have to lie, because how embarrassing would that be, to have your ex know that you were on your way to a blind date. That you had to still put yourself out there because you hadn’t figured it out yet, this love thing. At least I look good. Or, like Diana Ross.

Luckily I only have to go one stop, so we exchange awkward goodbyes and I run off the train. A few minutes later I am stepping into the bar and trying to shake off the jitters my chance subway meeting had added to the nerves I already had for the date. After my eyes adjust to the darkness, I look around. I see a guy rising from his seat and smiling in my general direction. Must be him. Ok, time to be charming. Here we go.

I smile back, and walk over to meet him.

A friend of mine was looking for an apartment a few weeks ago. The decision to move was sudden, and I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I respected that she needed some time to run around and do what needed to get done. After all, some of the most gut-wrenchingly depressing times in my life were when I was apartment hunting in NYC. If you are ever getting cocky about how well you’re doing in life, try moving. It will humble you again in the most cruel way. Okay, I know I’m being melodramatic but the point is I knew my friend would be stressed and busy so I didn’t (hopefully) harass her with too many questions about what was going on.

Then, somewhere into the second week of apartment hunting, she dropped me a note saying she was moving her stuff into storage and leaving New York. I was shocked! I mean, I know you want to slit your wrists when you realize that all you can afford in this real estate inflated city is a 20′ x 20′ box with a toilet-shower combo, and even that will take up most of your paycheck, but actually leaving NYC? Could things have become that bleak?

When I finally got a chance to catch up with her, her choice made complete sense. I knew she was doing the right thing. In fact, she was doing something I had never had the guts to do — move. To the midwest. On her own. To pursue her passion-project and give it her full attention.

Holy shit, right?

The more I thought about her decision, the more amazed and proud I was of her. After all, it takes more guts to give up stability (in whatever form you have it) and choose uncertainty. Leaving the path that has a goal at the end and a lot of bumpers on the side so you don’t get too hurt if you fall. The only time I think I really did that was when I broke off my engagement. It feels like the floor was pulled out from under you, but you don’t quite start to fall. In fact, it’s the fear of falling that is the hard part, and you have to muster up the strength to not focus on how you could sink at any moment and pretend you’re okay. For a while it’s not too bad, you can really convince yourself and everyone else that you’re as solid as a rock. But once in a while, on those harder days, you just want someone else to bear that burden for you so you can regain some strength. But that’s the thing about being single; no one there to bear your weight even for those few moments.

As for my friend, she’s really going to do it, all on her own. Leave NYC. Leave her job. Leave her friends. Leave that sense of security of knowing what tomorrow will bring.

I am really excited for her, and really scared for her, and really excited for her.

Holy shit, right?

Ok reader, close your eyes and think about the last time you found yourself singing out loud, with all your heart and soul, to  Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” No no, not at a wedding, but in a bar. Remember? You were pretty drunk, all your friends were there. There were a lot of very cheap pitchers of beer involved. In fact, if you were aware enough to notice, you may recall that there was beer on everything. The floor, the dirty wooden stools, your shoes. After all, when one belts out Bon Jovi, the contents of the beer glass in hand do tend go flying in many directions.

Can you picture it? I’m willing to make you a bet – you were 25 years old.

This past weekend, I found myself in that bar. The same slightly pungent smell, the same sticky feel to everything you touched. The same, drunk, 25 year-olds, having the same conversations we used to. Generally, this was about how awesome everyone was. And how awesome life is. How awesome it would be to get wings afterwards. Then there was the same music, which was the most interesting part to me – U2, Aerosmith, Greenday. Some things never change, I guess.

I happened to be there with a young friend who fit right in to this crowd. I did once, I think, but definitely not now. But I tried to hide the fact that I was feeling pretty old, shove aside that little voice in my head that kept saying been here-done that, and happily guzzled down the watery, almost tasteless beer. I can’t deny there was a little bit of nostalgia involved, and it was nice.

After a while of not so witty but pleasant banter with some of my friend’s friends, someone suggested we get in on the game of beer pong. I had been oblivious that whole time that the mass of people in the back of the bar were standing around a series of thin rectangular tables seemingly fashioned specifically for that game.

Now you may find this hard to believe, but I had never seen a real game of beer pong. (I know, I know. And no, I don’t know what I was doing in college exactly, but clearly not playing beer pong.) I was fascinated! I was disgusted! I mean, you throw a little white ping-pong ball all over the ground and sometimes by sheer luck (is there any actual skill in this? I’m not convinced yet) it lands in one of your opposing team’s beer cup.

Then, and this is the part where the herpes is spread, the opposing team has to drink that cup! The cycle is something like mouth to cup to ball to floor to cup to mouth. You might as well have sex with the other team!

Ok, I know it was the old fogie in me that was so grossed out by the whole thing, but I had to ask my young friend about it.

“Sooo, this game is fun, eh?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“It’s pretty much a guaranteed way to get drunk, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And…so what about the germs?” I don’t even want to know what my expression must have been like, but I’m pretty sure I whispered the word germs in order to ensure that he knew they were bad. Just in case…well…he didn’t mind them. And yes, by germs I meant herpes.

“Germs? Oh no, that’s what the water cups are for,” he answered.

“Water cups?” And then I saw them. Next to the triangle-shaped row of beer cups set up in front of each team was a plastic cup filled with water. Right before a player was about to throw the ping-pong ball towards the opposite side of the table in order to sink it into a cup of beer, he would first dip it quickly in the water cup. I guess that was to clean off the, uh, germs.

“So, what happens if your opponent doesn’t dip the ball in the water?” I asked.

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t happen. Everyone knows about the water. It’s not polite otherwise.”

So, it turns out that beer pong has rules of etiquette. I don’t know what I was worried about. After all, you can’t really get herpes from beer pong.

Just then the game we were watching ended and our turn was up.

“So, you want to play?” he asked me, with a sheepish and irresistible smile.

“Yeah.”

I just started a new job – you know how that goes, right? You don’t where anything is, where you’re supposed to be, or what you’re really supposed to be doing. (Although I am pretty sure whatever it is, I am doing it wrong.)  It’s stressful to start something new and try to make a good impression as you figure things out. I’m very much the newbie right now; I don’t know everyone’s name, or even have my own key to the staff bathroom, for that matter.

So a few nights ago, when my new boss called me and asked if I was willing to attend a meeting after work the next day to learn about our new system of allergy testing, I said yes. After all, it’s never good to say no to your boss about something educational-sounding, especially when you’re still trying to make a good impression.

But as the details emerged, it became clear that the “meeting” she mentioned was a dinner sponsored by the company that makes the allergy test. I was so disappointed when I started realizing what was going on. I had been really proud of myself for never having once attended a dinner intending to sell me, and hence my patients, some kind of drug or device.

I didn’t know what I should do, but in the end I decided I didn’t have the balls to say no to the new boss quite yet, especially since before I quite knew what the meeting really was for she had made special efforts to secure me a ride to and from the event, which was upstate.

So there I was the next night, standing outside of the clinic under the #2 train elevated platform, waiting for my ride and feeling like a coward for not having the guts to tell my boss the truth. Every time a train passed overheard, the shaking made me feel a little more queasy. Soon, I saw a dark sedan pull up, and a short, stubby man with slicked back blond hair and a thick face jumped out and called out my name. “Hey, Doc! I’m here to take you to dinner!” he said.

Once we were on our way and making awkward small talk, I realized that he was the sales rep! It wasn’t a hired taxi as I had imagined it would be…the actual company representative came personally to pick me up. Now I really felt like I was sleeping with the enemy. Queasy factor – up a few more notches.

The whole night just felt sleazy to me. I couldn’t believe how much money they were spending taking us out to dinner. The “meeting” about the specific lab test they made was only a quick, 10 minutes sales pitch. The rest of the time the company guys (there were three of them) just made small talk with the doctors (there were five of us), mostly about the amazing food. To add to my guilt, it was a really good restaurant. Mario Batali. There was this goat cheese, pistachio, truffle honey pizza that seriously made me never want to eat anything against lest it should tar the memory of what I had just tasted.

Enjoying the food made queasy bump to straight up nausea.

I felt bad enough by that point to ask for a taxi home early, and soon enough, I was on my way back to lower Manhattan. The sales company, of course, paid. I couldn’t help but ask the driver how much he had charged the company for my ride, which would easily be close to 90 minutes long. It was a lot. Enough to pay for allergy medications for a patient for an entire year. That thought resounded in my head the whole way back home.

I felt dirty. I feel dirty, still.

I realized that night that many of the physicians I work with, especially my boss, are not infrequently in contact with various pharma and other sales reps. So for me to take a personal stance against it not only tells them my view on the matter, but also casts judgement onto their actions. It’s a little bit of a slippery slope. How can you tell someone that you prefer not to participate in something because you believe it is inappropriate, even somewhat immoral, but hey they should go on and have a great time? I really don’t want to be on a high-horse with my colleagues. After all, it’s hard to rock the boat when you don’t quite have your sea legs.

I don’t know if I have much of a point to this story. I guess it’s just to say, without intending to be melodramatic about it, that I really am disturbed about the whole thing. Not having the courage to say what I wanted to. Not having the conviction to act on my principles. I feel like I compromised my integrity, and it’s a bad feeling.

I know someday soon, when my boss asks me to attend such an event again, I’m going to have to tell her why I choose not to go. I can’t do what I did that night again. It’s going to be very awkward, I’m sure. But it can’t be any worse than feeling the way I do now.

I hope.

So as some of you may have noticed, this has been the longest span of time without a blog entry from me. There is a good reason for that. I have been utterly boring in the last month, singularly preoccupied with one thing – furnishing my new apartment. Last week, I finally moved into a proper one bedroom apartment, in a nice doorman building, where the faucets all work the way they should.

Anyway, I’ve spend an abnormally large amount of time thinking about how to furnish and decorate my new place. Any free moments I have had in the last 5 or so weeks has been spent shopping or surfing the internet for design ideas, color palates, furniture, rugs, lamps. I think I have sat on and tested out every single sofa in Manhattan. You see, I had this desire to have the place look nice, and not cookie-cutter like every other West Elm catalog. I scourged E-bay for antique furniture on the cheap, and turned to Dwell Magazine and Design Within Reach for ideas. Most of them were too expensive for my budget, but it was fun to see what I can’t afford.

The one thing I can’t help but wonder is, why does everyone want to have furniture that is shabby chic? Isn’t that just a euphemism for, “I found it in my grandmother’s attic and am trying to sell it for way more than it’s worth on E-bay, and hoping that some Manhattanite yuppy will use it to impress their Crate and Barrel loving friends?” Have people always overpaid for furniture that is chipped and uneven and broken?  What is it, exactly, about distressed wood that makes it seem somehow wiser than fresh, newly painted wood? I really don’t know why exactly it’s so fun to have your high-rise, downtown city apartment look like a country cabin on the inside, but for some reason it really just is.

I know I have been putting way more thought into all this than a rental apartment deserves. But I can’t deny I’m a little worried about it, because people notice this kind of stuff all the time. Think about it, if you go over to your new date’s apartment for the first time and find everything is black leather and glass, you might, say, categorize him into a certain style of person. Ok, let’s be frank – you’ll judge him for it. He went from that nice guy you were picturing introducing to your best couple friends to, to that kind of cheesy guy who clearly lacks any taste.

I guess what this all means is that I’m afraid of being judged. What does my furniture say about me? Am I modern, distinctive, classic, or retro? (Ok, not retro – that stuff is just plain ugly.) Should I put a motorcycle in the middle of my living room? That always seems really cool for some reason. And what exactly is a sconce?

Anyway, here I am, in my nice new place with some oldish-looking furniture, and some more modern stuff in the mix as well. Shabby? Chic? You all can be the judge; housewarming party coming soon. I’m gonna go find that old motorcycle on E-bay.

Do you ever have that nightmare where your family, tired of worrying about your looming spinsterhood, secretly drugs you and puts you on an Air India flight bound for Delhi? You know, you regain consciousness somewhere over Africa and find you’re about to become the victim of the ultimate matrimonial crime – the drive-by wedding!

What’s that? You don’t have this nightmare? Right, then, it’s just me…

What is a drive-by wedding exactly? It’s a meticulously timed, perfectly orchestrated trip designed for single Indians around the world to return to the motherland for the sole purpose of getting married. In case any of you out there are considering it, or find yourself drugged into it, here’s how things would generally go:

Day 1: Fly to India, go to your family’s house and village. Jet-lagged, you will inevitably wake up at 3am with nothing to do but stare out the window. Soon, a gaunt man in a white tunic-pant outfit will come riding by on a bicycle with three crates of milk in glass bottles strapped to the back, heading to the market. You’ll see Bhoori, your family’s housemaid, walk out of the front door with two large buckets in hand. She’ll limp slowly through the dirt lane to the small water pump a few yards down in the village center. Disregarding her status as an untouchable and the implications of the denied casteism that still exists culturally, you’ll say to yourself, “This is what life is about. Milk in bottles, water from a well…such simplicity.” And suddenly you’ll think maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Especially after you pop a few more of the pills your family gave you.

Day 2: Now begins the business part of your trip. While you were in America packing to come here, all the aunties and soothsayers of the village were meeting with your grandparents and pouring over biodatas (marriage resumes) of eligible bachelors. Astrological charts were consulted, teeth were inspected, and by the time your plane landed in Delhi twenty young men and their families had appointments to meet you.  The first family arrives with their son, Hiresh, a handsome young engineering graduate from IIT. He is not much taller than you, but at least he is not sporting that bushy mustache all your fobby cousins do. (Yes, both the men and women.) After the families chit chat for about 45 minutes, during which time you and Hiresh both avoid any direct conversation but try repeatedly to steal glances at each other, one of the elders suggests that you two go for a walk. In that next 15 – 20 minutes, accompanied in part by a small gang of young village children who are following you and snickering, you get your equivalent of speed dating time with Hiresh.

Rinse, repeat. Do this 20 times.

Day 7: You’ve sat through all the “interviews” and met all the men. By now, the heat and the bugs will have hounded you into a baseline irritability, but the unbelievable food lessens the insult a little. It’s decision time. You get a few days, maybe a few second round meetings with some of the guys in the running, and then you pick one. The elders hold a meeting with his family, discuss mutual interest and dowry issues (it’s not about cows anymore – will the bride come with both gold and diamond jewelry?).  You sit back and start thinking about wedding shopping while your 4’10” grandma, who never lets anyone get the better of her in bargaining, does all the negotiating.

Week 2: You are officially engaged, and now instead of the milkman’s bicycle bell you wake up everyday to the sounds of the workmen building your wedding mandap (a little stage for the ceremony) in the village square. There is a general buzz all around as the wedding venue, clothes, ornaments, and of course food are prepared. But, you don’t have much to worry about, and even get to take in an afternoon at the local hang-out spots with your other young female cousins where, of course, they mercilessly tease you about your upcoming wedding night.

Week 3: The wedding week itself! It’s basically a four-day long party in your honor. First is the arrival of the groom’s family; this occurs literally in a parade fashion with your betrothed at the helm. You’ll have one night entirely devoted to having mendhi, or henna, applied in intricate patterns on your hands and feet. The night after that is often the Garba night; hours upon hours of dancing and eating that lasts until dawn. But not for you; you are whisked away at some reasonable hour because the next day, your wedding day, starts very early with a milk and turmeric powder bath that the elder aunties give you in a ceremony intended to make your skin glow. Before long, will find yourself in the mandap, wearing your weight in red chiffon and gold, taking the seven steps around the marriage pyre which signify wedding vows in Hinduism. And poof! Within a matter of three weeks, and about two-dozen little white pills, you are a wife!

Week 4: Honeymoon, probably in some Himalayan Hill Station. Or, if you’re a more modern couple, maybe Goa. A few days as the dutiful daughter-in-law at your husband’s home and then you are back on a plane to the US. Husband to follow in six short weeks.

And there you have it – you’re a Drive-by Bride! Not only has your family procured you a husband, they’ve also given you a lifelong addiction to sedatives. What could be better?

Oh, in case this actually ever happens to me…can someone at least make sure I get an aisle seat? Thanks.