It’s the season.

Not just the one of the questionably jolly fat gentleman in a red jumpsuit and his entourage of randy reindeer, or the limited edition gift hampers of materialism.

‘Tis the season to be wed.

Down south, the weather’s perfect for it.

My wanton weekend (wishful thinking) plans for the last month have been displaced by wedding and post-nuptial receptions.

Lots of organza, sookmuk, cheese-smiling and trying to avoid chewing while the video-camera guy decides to go art-house cinema.

And in between these weekends where my ceramic hair iron (gift from the Gods) was put to industrial use and mascaras wands were dusted off, I was faced with the off-shoot phenomenon of the Silly Season;  The Set Up.

Good intentions, I’ve been told. A friend once said that it’s indicative of how highly people value you, if they’re willing to take the risk of hooking you up with a good friend or family member.

In my view, it makes for a very good social barometer, an almost accurate way of finding out just how well people actually know you. If they’ve sussed out your personality, figured out your ideals and ambitions and managed to come up with someone compatible, that is, in itself, the real crunch.

But it’s been known to go horribly awry.

For one thing, so many assume that facial-giftedness is the clincher. And if the guy is a successful type (read: doctor, high profile bean counter), it’s a given that he’s intelligent and will somehow provide for stimulating conversation for many years to come.

Forget the fact that he is socially-dyslexic, that his world-views are limited to the 7pm news (when there’s nothing else good on), that reading is just not my bag, baby, and that his spirituality is confined to making it in time for Jummah every Friday.

All will be forgiven, for he certainly does no damage to the PH of the genepool, girl, and overseas holidays every year, doll!

While an attractive phenotype is like getting the bonus ball in a Lotto draw, it’s not the grand prize. I guess it’s a sign of maturity on my part (what? lol.), when looks don’t particularly factor in my mating game. I go with Willy S. when he wrote of a meeting of the minds.

So come this weekend, Safeeya (if you’re reading this) I will know exactly how much of Saaleha you have managed to garner over this last year. I’ll be nice, I promise.

——

Today’s arb lyric:

Love is a brittle madness.
– Jason Mraz