Wedding in Qatar, Part 2

JustKooki.Blogspot. com

Wedding Preparation

[If you missed the first part you can read it by clicking here Part 1: Invitation & Advice]

Over 2,000 guests were invited. In spite of the advice I’d received, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up with the Qatari’s. Not even a slim chance. Middle Eastern women, especially from the Gulf, keep the haute couture industry alive (do read this article by Reuters). Some fashion designers have reported that Gulf royalty will buy up to 40 dresses for one wedding season. This refers to the upper echelons of society, but the sentiment trickles down to the less wealthier levels (keeping in mind that ‘less wealthy’ is relative). 

This is the stage: I am white. I am so white even my hair is white. My makeup repertoire is eyeliner, and concealer because I drink too much coffee and alcohol and my body stores the toxins under my eyes. I am the kind of person who keeps the tags on a gown so I can return it after I’ve worn it, as I did for the dress I wore to the Time Out Awards. It turns out I am also the kind of person who is too lazy to drive across town to return a gown, so, conveniently, I have a gown. Thankfully, I also have no qualms about wearing that gown until my waistline outgrows it or all the sequins fall off. 

Against all advice I do not go to the beauty salon. To prepare for the wedding I borrow my daughter’s eye shadow, my neighbors beaded clutch, and a friends Versace scarf (she bought it when I declined to spend QR400 on a piece of fabric. 400 is the sale price; the full price was about the same as my gown, which is not haute couture). I put on 3 times as much make up as usual. My hair does not curl so much as frizz. When I look at the finished product in the mirror, the name Cyndi Lauper is emblazoned on my head. 

My 6 year-old tells me I look like a vampire. And she wants to know what I’ve done to my toes (they’re painted red). I fail in other areas too. I have nothing resembling cleavage; I can’t fit  a flask into my beaded clutch; nor do I have anything to strap it to my thigh, which would have been fun even though it would have ruined the line of the dress. Since my main goal is to not offend, I sigh and walk out the door. No fairy godmother has appeared to turn me into a princess wearing haute couture.

I go with two other wives. They don’t wear haute couture either but, as opposed to me, it looks like they’ve combed their hair. We arrive at the Sheraton around 8:30 p.m. We recognize the entry to Dafna Hall by the line of really, massive SUV’s waiting their turn to drive as close to the entry as possible so their passengers can disembark. We haven’t got a driver; we park and walk. A guard stationed outside the building collects the tickets that allow us entry. A large black cloth has been hung just inside the glass doors so no one from the outside can see in. Two more guards stand just in front of the black cloth. There’s no possibility of slipping into this event unnoticed. 

You know how you sometimes read things like, “beyond the black curtain, a fantasy world arose”? Those stories must originate in the Gulf...

to be continued...

(You know what's more annoying than 'to be continued'? Having to pick your daughter up early from school. So bite me and come back tomorrow.)