Gold Coast Wedding

My Greek myth, not surprisingly, evaporated the moment I was whisked into the grime of the city, courtesy of the Eastern Suburbs trainline. Choking from bus fumes on Oxford Street or blown by wet winds on train platforms I wonder: is this how life is meant to be lived or should I do a Shirley Valentine and leave it all behind? Pressed against some sweating businessman on the Tube in the rush hour, I daydream of my island and the realities of setting up there.

Luckily my normal returning to Sydney funk has been diluted by the balmy spring sunshine after a few rainy days. I am unimpressed with the way I slip back into my routine so quickly. When away I always think I will revolutionize my life - perhaps with a revamp of my non-existent fitness regime. I planned a daily early morning run in Hyde Park, followed by a spot of meditation. I would be calm and Zen and breathe from the depths of my diaphragm and radiate optimism. But the only real trace of my island existence is a regular trip down to Coles to buy tropical juice in an attempt to recreate my healthy breakfasts.

I spun back into Sydney just in time to honor a wedding invite. I had a twelve-hour turnaround, for which I had tried on a few inappropriate suits that no longer fitted and ended up blessing my mother, who recently bought me an age-appropriate suit which made me look mature and sophisticated rather than tacky and eccentric. I flew to Gold Coast, the Guardian Angel Catholic church, realizing that I would barely know anyone - it was my friend’s wedding.

I really didn’t know where or with whom to sit. As I was looking wildly lost, my friend’s sister scooped me up and deposited me in a pew which was obviously for misfits. I discovered later that we were all alone in our particular ways - though most of this lot were widowed or divorced.

I bravely sang out those stirring hymns in an otherwise silent row of Australians. The sermon was full of talk of growing up and the excitement of taking on a new chapter. The vicar talked of life after marriage as the culmination of our individual production lines, where we emerged as “finished products”, and he claimed the institution was so sacred that it defied all mathematical rules. It is, he said, the only time one plus one equals one. It sounded like some kind of Excel spreadsheet to me.

Winter in Bombay, as well as all over India, is the marriage season. Between October and February, it is not unknown for as many as 14,000 weddings to take place in the city on a single day. Getting hitched is a business, with an average ceremony and reception costing $10,000. Wonder, if all saccharine coated candy floss is required to express one's undying love for another. Well, who am I to make a comment - things I own have already ended up owning me. Am myself slave to the Ikea nesting instinct and am pretty much the contents of my wallet, my jeans and my shoes. All style (apparently) definitely no substance.