Category: Blog

Hermès

The sun streamed through my hotel room, the piercing yellow beams forcefully waking me up from a restless lie-in that I had been attempting for the last hour. I turned away from the sun and covered my face with the fluffy down pillow. This proved successful for about fifteen minutes, ultimately resulting in an exasperated sigh.

“There’s no point sweating into these sheets,” I muttered. Grumbling, I rubbed my eyes open and delicately lifted myself off the bed.

“This room has quite a Parisian feel to it in the sun,” I mused, looking around at the wooden furnishings and the beige upholstery. The room had a faint pine fragrance that seemed to seep into every nook and cranny of the wood.

In fact, I was thousands of kilometres away from Paris, in Turin, enjoying a sunny autumnal holiday. It had been the perfect confluence of cheap flights, plenty of sights and activities to entertain, and budget accommodation.

My room was on the fourth floor, and I ventured a peak out of the window only to be met with a mesmerising scene of the city basked in the orange glow of the morning sun. The church spires, the royal palace – simultaneously ablaze in the sun and shrouded by wisps of the early morning mist.

“I think I will walk around the city today. I want to take in the atmosphere of this place,” I loudly proclaimed, smiling at the window, excited with the plans I had made for the day.

I spent the next hour getting ready to the tunes of ABBA.

“I look cute, good, I’m sure this city could use some eye candy,” I said out loud, and with that unwarranted level of self-confidence, I ventured out into the street.

My first stop, in what I considered to be true Italian fashion, was to the local café across the street for a cappuccino and a pastry

Having carb loaded, I proceeded to walk off the extra calories I had consumed. The brisk morning air was refreshing, but also made me regret not having brought my heavier jacket with me.

“I will have to walk in the sun,” I resolved and proceeded to cross the street in order to feel the sun’s warmth. I felt out of place amongst the morning commuter rush until I entered the main square, awash with tourists.

“Here we go,” I sighed entering my first queue of the day.

Three museums later – including a unique, quirky coffee museum – I was ready to take a break. The blaring midday sun had replaced the morning briskness with a lethargy that seemed to ooze out from every cobblestone. A dense, static heat had begun to fester.

Carefully choosing to walk in the shade now, I made my way to a pasta restaurant that I had spied a few hours earlier. They had tables outside that were serviced by umbrellas, and I managed to grab one for myself, barely beating the lunch rush.

As I waited for my food to arrive, I distracted myself with the timeless past-time of people watching. The professionals in their business suits that were more interested in agreeing business terms than the sights, sounds and smells around them. Old Italian women flaunting their wealth on the streets as they strode to their many social engagements. Young children enjoying a game of football on the streets, a mystery as to why they were not in school. Young lovers canoodling without a care.

My attention was drawn to this old man wearing a bright yellow silk scarf that contrasted with a navy, blue suit. He was stood across the corner of a square, leaning against one of the centuries-old pillars of the post office. He had wavy grey hair that reached his shoulders. His eyes were covered by large, opaque sunglasses. He was holding a book in his hands though I was too far away to read the title.

What drew me to him was the way he kept fiddling with his scarf – like it was choking him but he could not remove it.

“Why doesn’t he just take off the scarf?”, I thought to myself. My lips curled into a smile, it was almost comical how seemingly powerful, yet helpless, he looked. He looked left, then right, trying to spot someone. Eventually, he broke into a grin and strode towards a man in t-shirt, straw hat, and trousers – the vestural opposite of the scarved man. They hugged warmly and the man in the hat pointed proudly at the scarf.

“They must be a couple and the scarf a gift from his partner. How sweet!”, I thought, my eyes melting at the gesture of love.

I didn’t have time to follow the couple any further as my food had arrived.

I had signed up for a tour of the opera house after lunch; the cool, dark interiors of the building were a necessary relief.

The opera house was plush and richly decorated. The luxuriated interiors reminded me of the scarf the man was wearing.

“Maybe I should treat myself to something nice. I haven’t bought myself a present in over a year,” I contemplated. My thoughts wandering away from the tour guide’s melodic explanations.

For the remainder of the tour, I was fixated on the idea of buying a gift for myself, trying to determine what it is I should buy.

Later that afternoon, I stumbled upon an ornate square with exquisite baroque buildings on every side. Amidst the architectural wonders, a bright orange awning with a brown horse-driven chariot caught my eyes.

Of course, there had to be a Hermès store in this baroque square. As a good a place as any to start my quest for a gift.

I felt woefully inadequate walking into the store in my shorts and jumper as a man dressed impeccably greeted me and directed me to the men’s section of the store. The man, Alex, seemed very kind and eager to help – no hint of judgment at my attire.

“They must be used to having tourists walk in all the time, dressed shabbily and sweaty from the excursions of the day,” I thought to myself, breaking into a tight smile.

Alex asked me what I was looking to buy, and having no real need or idea of what exactly it was I wanted, I blurted out, “Scarves”, in memory of the man I had spied at lunch. This led to an unexpected second question regarding the size of said scarf.

“Please just show me the different sizes so I can get a better idea of what’s available,” I said, bewildered at what the various sizes could be. The answer was perfectly logical – a full-length scarf or a neck scarf – how could I be so ill-informed.

Following that misstep, I channelled my mother’s approach to shopping – looking intently at the clothes, making sure to feel them, making some generic comment about the softness of the cloth or the colour of the dye, and making sure to ask the attendant to bring out some more designs.

The scarves were truly luxurious, the fabric felt as light and soft as a cloud, yet when I tried one on, I was immediately boiling with the warmth the scarf provided. Naturally, the topic of price emerged as the next point of consideration.

“Surely, it cannot be too expensive? Ultimately, it’s a scarf and not a shirt or a pair of trousers or a suit. When is the right time to inquire about the price? I do not want to appear unpalatably price conscious, but I also cannot be caught off-guard by the price. The worst would be to rock up to the till and have a stroke while paying,” I thought to myself.

I could feel beads of sweat appearing on my forehead as I fretted with this dilemma.

Alex, however, came to my rescue with a quip about the price of the scarf I was holding and what made it more premium, and obviously more expensive, than the other scarves I had been seeing. A whopping twelve hundred euros that made my eyes pop, but I reassured myself that this was the premium offering, and the other scarves were likely to be much more reasonably priced. I had my opening now to inquire about that reasonable price.

Alex smiled at me and chirped, “Eight hundred euros.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way as if I was the idiot for not knowing the price already.

“Maybe, people come here with an idea of what they want to buy already; almost like completing a pilgrimage that began with a few clicks online during one’s lunch hour,” I wondered.

I grabbed the smallest sized scarf I could see, one that I really did not particularly fancy, and was told that it cost three hundred and fifty euros.

Alex stared at my face curiously, obviously trying to scrutinise my reaction to the prices and whether I was going to buy anything or not. I was not sure if it was meant as a form of judgment that the prices might be too high for me or as a form of customer insight as to what else could he sell me that might be better suited to my price range.

While he stared at my poker face, my mind was anything but calm and stoic.

“Do I really need a scarf? No. I don’t have a green scarf, however, so it would be nice to buy one. Then again, the whole point of this exercise was to treat myself, which, by definition, means indulging in a luxury and not buying something essential,” my internal monologue debated.

I smiled back at Alex. “Sorry, just trying to decide what is the right size for the scarf and what colour I might want,” I said. His eyes lit up at this and he proceeded to babble about what the various sized scarves could be used for while I receded back into my monologue.

“Oh no, I have committed myself to buying a scarf now. Why did I have to say that? His face was so insistent, I needed to give him something. Anyway, now that I am stuck with this, should I buy the cheaper, smaller scarf that I don’t really care for or the mid-sized scarf that I absolutely adore but that costs more than double the smaller one?”, I pondered silently.

I let my hand glide over the mid-sized scarf pretending to once again be a connoisseur of silk and wool while I clutched the small scarf in my hand.

“What other colours and patterns do you have in this smaller size?”, I asked Alex, in an attempt to buy more time and put off the need to decide.

After faffing about for fifteen minutes, touching and feeling another dozen scarves, I had made up my mind to go for the

scarf I actually wanted, the green mid-sized one, and to spend the money for it.

“Why would I waste hundreds of euros on something I didn’t care about?”, cinched it for me in the end, though I was very reluctant in parting with my card at the till.

Alex, meanwhile, grinned foolishly at me; probably a combination of completing a successful sale and duping a willing customer in the process.

I felt very self-conscious with the bright orange bag I was now saddled with while making my way around town, “Were people looking at me? What was going through their minds? Was I being judged?” I dared not actually wear the scarf yet.

After the initial joy of having bought the scarf, the weight of the purchase dawned on me.

“Why have I spent so much money on this? I am sure I could find a green scarf for much cheaper. Surely this is a mistake, what is the returns policy for these items?”, I wondered foolishly.

I had, of course, overrun my budget for the trip, and as the afternoon progressed, financial panic began to set in. I decided to cut costs to the extent possible – no more taxis, lunches were going to be sandwiches from the street stall, just one breakfast coffee a day and limited to an espresso which was the cheapest. This measly abstinence, for the next couple of days, was my source of hope at righting the financial imbalance the scarf had wrought. Innocent delusion was the most apt way of describing it.

Every time I held back ordering my second coffee in the afternoon, I felt this sense of pride, almost as though I was a martyr to the cause of household savings. I walked around chuffed, chest slightly puffed out, eyes almost shut with the lack of caffeine.

And yet those evenings, when I returned to the hotel room, seeing the scarf, and running my hands through it would send an electric current of satisfaction through me. The softness of the silk, the detailed weaving, the full colours – would instantly light a smile on my face, only to be erased the next morning by the espresso I had ordered instead of a cappuccino.

On the last day of my holiday, as I was waiting in the departure lounge for boarding to be announced, I had come to a final stand on my feelings for the scarf.

“What’s done is done. I am the proud owner of this scarf, and I shall flaunt it. Parade the opulence as a form of penitence.”

Do Only Dangerous Men Dine Alone?

“Why did I decide to travel alone?” I cursed myself silently while walking to a restaurant ten minutes away from my hotel. Ten minutes that felt more like ten days.

The crisp, autumnal wind sniping at me from the sloshing waters seemed to portend something ominous.

*

A week ago, I had some holidays left to take and decided to book an impromptu solo trip to Venice. It was my first time not only in Venice, but also travelling alone. I had woken up on a grey, wet October morning and in a burst of energy and vigour decided to book the trip and give it a go.

“It can’t be that bad,” I thought. “Hordes of people do it. I just need to pick a place where there is lots to see and do so that I am constantly busy, that would make me feel less lonely.”

For the next two hours, I scrolled through a few travel blogs and magazines. I booked museums, hotels, travel passes, and in the process created a detailed itinerary.

As was wont to happen, the initial wave of excitement and adrenaline eventually ebbed to make its way for the incoming wave of anxiety.

*

The morning of my departure, I woke up very early, still in a daze. It was still dark outside, but my alarm had gone off. I needed to catch my flight at daybreak.

At the airport gate, I nervously approached the attendant with my passport and ticket.

“Will they ask me why I am flying alone? I need to have a credible story,” my mind raced as I inched closer to the desk.

“Sir, your ticket and passport please,” she called and I handed the documents over, which she duly passed back after a green light went on, following which I made my way quietly to my seat.

A couple of hours later, I was standing on the deck of a boat, sprayed with water from the sea, hair blowing in the wind, Venice in sight. Nothing prepares you for your first glimpse of Venice, and I soon forgot all about my anxieties.

Like clockwork, I checked in to the hotel, freshened up, re-read my itinerary for the day and was off. It was only at seven in the evening, on this walk to my first dinner alone that my misgivings re-emerged.

*

The restaurant was as the website had described; friendly, cosy, and approachable.

“Hello, I have a reservation for one person for seven fifteen?”

“Oh yes sir, please follow me,” the young man at the door smiled. He led me through a maze of tables to the back and offered me one of two options. The tables were two-seaters, making me feel a pinch of guilt for having them lose the custom of one.

Having been seated, a wine list was placed in front of me. My anxiety at dining alone led me to seek respite in alcohol and I pored judiciously over the rows of wines listed. The waiter, an amiable local who was all too pleased to serve me, came back with some water in a few minutes.

“Could I have the Chianti please?”

“Oh sir, I should have mentioned more clearly. The wines are all by the bottle, will you be having a bottle?” I couldn’t quite place the tone of the question – was it tinged in sarcasm or merely naïve.

“Uh…hmm…no, I’d rather not. What wines do you have by the glass?”

“We have our house wine, I will bring that over.”

“Great thank you.” He left with an apologetic smile leaving me to play with my fingers, concentrating quite heavily on the ridges in the skin, tracing them around repeatedly.

I felt a bit more relaxed with the wine glass in my hand, ready to look up from the table, and my fingers, to face my fellow diners.

“I wonder why they have put me in this table all the way at the back. They must know that dining alone can be difficult….or maybe it’s bad for business?”

“Oh and why does that couple keep looking over at me, studiously trying to avoid eye contact?”

“Is there something on my face? Am I that pitiable?”

I gulped wine every time a concerning thought crossed my mind. “The wine will help, I mean think of all the people who dine alone, in books, in films! It cannot be that novel,” I declared and mustered up enough courage to smile to myself.

As if on cue, the waiter approached with the food menu, which I was only too glad to be forced to peruse through, taking an incessantly long time to make a decision.

“I will have the spinach ravioli please.”

“Of course, a very good choice,” the waiter responded, deftly snatching the menus away from the table.

“Dinners on holidays are meant to be luxurious affairs – myriad courses, multitude of glasses. But its best I just stick to a quick and filling meal,” I decided. “There is no point sitting around drawing unwanted attention.”

I glanced at my phone, and flicked through the news, work emails and scrolled through old photos, all in an attempt to distract my idle mind.

Just as I was getting ready to take another sip of wine from my glass, a family walked in to the restaurant and were led to one of the tables near where I was sat. The two children, about five years old, loudly inquired as to why I was eating alone at which point, the parents, thoroughly embarrassed, shushed them up and gave me weak smiles.

“What can I do but smile back,” I thought incredulously, wondering how lousy my smile must seem. “Fake.”

“Why have we, as a society, decided that certain things must be done in the company of others – dinner, cinema, museums; even when these activities do not necessarily lend themselves to a more social demeanour. One should not really be speaking while eating or watching a film or quietly walking about an exhibit. Yet the horror that the thought of doing these activities alone evokes is palpable.”

This train of thought had captivated me to such an extent that I woke with a start when the waiter returned with my ravioli. I thanked him hurriedly and returned my attentions to the task at hand – eating quickly.

There was something in me that would not, however, allow myself to descend into eating in an unsightly manner solely in order to get out of that restaurant. As though, eating with panache would restore some dignity to my wounded person. And thus, I proceeded to gently, without making undue noise or mess, make my way through the generous portion.

I was known to be a slow eater, and growing up my mother would constantly berate me for it.

“Why are you letting the food go cold?”

“Don’t you have better things to do than stare at your food?”

“I don’t want to wait around here for you to be done so that I can clean up after you.”

But the desire to absolve oneself of an imaginary shame can be such a powerful catalyst that I managed to finish my ravioli, daintily so, in about ten minutes.

The waiter came by with a look of both awe and bemusement.

“He should be happy, he will get his table back early and can seat a more profitable dining party,” I muttered under my breath seeing his wry smile.

I was handed a dessert menu in spite of not expressing any desire for something sweet to finish off the meal. As courtesy demands, I pretended to give the menu a look over.

“The tiramisu sounds amazing, but I just want to be done with this dinner. That family keeps staring at me. I am pretty sure they must be worried for their kids, thinking I am someone dangerous.”

“Do only dangerous men dine alone?” I must have managed to say that out loud enough for the waiter to hear me and shoot a quizzical look my way, as if unsure if I was actually dangerous.

“Oh, sorry, ignore me. I don’t think I will be having any dessert. I feel quite stuffed. Could I please have the bill?”

The waiter nodded back at me, flashed a slight smile and dashed off to wait at more exciting tables; tables where patrons were having desserts and bottles of alcohol.

Waiting for the bill seemed to take forever, it was as if they had forgotten to charge me for the food.

“Maybe they think of feeding me as some charity case,” I began to dread. I would keep checking my phone in case there were any notifications, imagining I was in demand. A ripple of laughter from the other end of the restaurant shattered my ruminations.

I needed to use the bathroom and proceeded to follow the well-lit and hard to miss directions. I felt a relief in getting up and having a purpose to my actions and ended up taking longer than one would expect for a simple wee.

I slowly made my way back to the table with a mixture of dread and relief that the ordeal was almost over and I could head back to the safety of my hotel room.

As I approached my table, I noticed that the bill had been left by the waiter, neatly folded. He had also left two chocolate truffles, a parting gift.

My teeth covered in chocolate as I popped the second truffle in, I thought, “These truffles are so soft and delicious, but I can’t help feeling like the unwanted recipient of charity.” The luxuriousness of the truffles quickly dissipated such thoughts, as indulgence is wont to do.

Gulping down the remaining glass of water, I stuck my hand in my pocket fishing for my wallet. I cannot describe in words the enormous sense of relief I felt as I put my card on top of the neatly folded bill. The relief was however short-lived, as the act of paying continued to stretch on for aeons.

I twiddled my thumbs and hazarded a look around the restaurant to see who else was dining with me that night. The restaurant had filled up a lot since I had begun my dinner. The two glasses of wine and the chocolate had steeled me for these last glances of the restaurant and the chance to watch the mannerisms of people out to dine.

At last, the waiter returned to the table with the card machine, perhaps remembering that he needed the table back.

“Oh sir, so sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologised loudly while tapping his fingers at the card machine. “This machine takes forever to connect. I am so sorry about it.”

“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologise for it,” I laughed back.

“Do you mind me asking you a question?” And without waiting for my response, he continued, “What brings you to Venice?”

“Well, I had some holidays to take and I had never seen Venice.”

“And, forgive me for being direct, you are travelling alone sir?”

“Yes, yes, quite alone.”

“I think it takes a tremendous amount of courage to travel alone. Though I feel it is the best, you are free to do as you please with no one nagging you to go shopping or stop to take pictures or too tired to go on walking. You can go for a late night stroll, have coffee with a beautiful local, and there are no rules or questions.”

I was caught a bit off guard by his outburst, and managed a smile coupled with some vigorous nodding to make up for my loss of words.

“But more important than the freedom is the courage, definitely. Being able to spend time in one’s thoughts, without the distractions of conversation or technology, buonissimo!”

The intense hand gesturing with the kiss blown in the air at the end were much too expressive for me to not laugh in merriment.

“I guess so,” I managed to say before being cut off by the loud noise the machine began making as it printed my receipt.

“This has been a lovely evening, and hope you have a good night,” I responded cheerfully forgetting all of the anxieties that dominated the meal.

As I put my jacket on, I thought to myself, “That waiter is right, it does take a lot of courage.” With a smug smile on my face, I exited the restaurant.

Perspective

It had been five years since I had graduated from university. Five years that seemed like a lifetime to me. I had moved to a different country and now lived a seemingly different life to most of my university friends, though still managing to keep in touch – the wonders of modern technology!

I would often fret over missing important milestones in the lives of my university friends when I first moved away – weddings, babies, a new job, a promotion. My fears were put to rest a year ago when a spate of wedding invitations started to flood my inbox – destination weddings, small weddings, avant-garde weddings.

A few weeks ago, I received my fifth such invitation. A unique invitation to a livestream event, the couple had decided to invite just a few close family members in person but still wanted to have the broader friend group join in the celebrations.

Let me tell you a bit about this couple, they were as unusual as their wedding invitation. The girl, Tara, had been the daughter of a high-ranking Indian diplomat who had been transferred to over a dozen countries as Tara was growing up. As a result, she had friends everywhere in the world but no one she was especially close to. Alex, her fiancée, was the first in his family to attend university, coming from a less well-to-do background where labour was valued more dearly than higher education. We were all part of the same programming class our first year and formed a group of five friends who’ve stayed connected since then.

They weren’t initially very close, as you can imagine. They just did not have many life experiences in common. However, halfway through our second year, Tara had a massive row with her family over what she should study and her career path, a saga that eventually resulted in her having a meagre allowance and being cut off financially apart from her tuition being paid. Alex was the only person who could empathise with her financial situation.

They have been together since then, through highs and lows – Alex getting accepted for a master’s program across the country, Tara trying her hand at an open relationship to overcome the distance and almost breaking off what she had with Alex in the process.

Seeing the invitation brought a smile to my face. They deserved this happily ever after, given everything they had been through.

As I scanned through the email, my eyes hovered uncertainly over the third paragraph. The wedding would feature a video reel of all their friends wishing them the very best in their married life. All virtual guests were requested to provide a video of their wishes.

I swallowed deeply and sweat began to seep through my t-shirt; I hated the prospect of having to record a video and potentially watch it.

A few days later, on a winter Saturday, I decided to record my message.

“How long should I make my message? Under a minute?”, I wondered aloud, before quickly shaking my head at my own suggestion.

“That is too long no one will want to listen to you for more than thirty seconds,” I berated myself, rolling my eyes.

I sat down on the couch and began scribbling down a few notes on what I was going to say.

Hi Tara and Alex! I am so happy for you and I wish I could be there at your wedding. Wishing you a very happy married life and we will surely celebrate when I see you next.

“Oh no, this makes it seem like I am miffed at not being invited to the wedding. I need to change this.”

Hi Tara and Alex! I am so happy for you guys and sending you my best wishes for the day. Hope you guys have a very happy married life and we will surely celebrate when I see you next.

“To be honest, I am not sure when they will play this clip. Maybe the wedding festivities are already over, so I should not send them any best wishes for the day. I think ‘Hi’ at the beginning is also extremely formal.”

Tara and Alex! I am so happy for you guys. Hope you have a very happy married life and we will surely celebrate when I see you next.

I nodded to myself with a sense of achievement as a smile deepened across my face. I had finally fought through my own vocal criticisms. The message was short and sweet, and would also, thankfully, mean that I would not have to endure seeing myself on video for too long.

The message decided, I then turned my attention to the camera on my phone through which I would be recording myself. I first placed the phone on the coffee table, but the angle was too low highlighting my double chin and long neck.

“I look like an obese ostrich, the angle has to change,” I grumbled.

I began piling magazines and picture books on the coffee table and built a throne for my phone to stand on.

“Much better, I have a well-dimensioned face now! But I look quite dark on the screen,” I sighed, dissatisfied with the outcome.

 I walked over to my bedroom and unplugged the lamp, carrying it back with me to the couch where I was planning on doing my recording. I angled the lamp such that the light would fall on my face and then checked myself in the camera again.

“Almost there! I just need to fix my hair now so it does not look like I am housing an unkempt nest fit for a sparrow,” I announced to no one as I got up to go to the mirror.

After three attempts at combing and re-combing my hair. I was finally satisfied with the way I would look in my video.

I sat down on my favourite couch, well not exactly a couch but the baby-blue settee that was next to the bookcase. The phone was a few feet in front of me on the coffee table. I hit the record button and began reading the short message I had composed. I triumphantly pressed the stop button when I finished and decided to view my handiwork.

The video clip, as I replayed it, felt very impersonal. I could almost picture a politician giving a partially rehearsed speech while occasionally glancing at his notes. My voice had a steady tone throughout, and the exclamation point in the first line of my written message had hardly translated to the clip.

“If they saw this they would either think I was somehow upset at this wedding taking place or that I was disinterested beyond a care,” I shook my head. “This won’t do.”

The second attempt would be livelier, I decided. I wanted to show them that the message was truly heartfelt.

I plastered on a wide smile and pressed play, spending the next few seconds undulating my voice and gesturing wherever I thought appropriate to bring more oomph to the whole affair.

“I look like a circus monkey,” I lamented as I watched the recording. “This sounds like bad or overdone play-acting along with an attempt to communicate everything through some obscure sign language.”

By this time, I was comfortable with the message I was going to give and decided to try something new – imagine that Tara and Alex were sitting where the phone stood. I would not have a sheet of paper and would just give them the simple congratulations, which was the original intention in any case.

I pressed play and spoke to the camera.

“This is perfect,” I smiled to myself after watching that last video again. “I think this is the one, but let me wait for a couple of days and play it again and make sure I still like it before I send it.”

The next weekend, I received a reminder email to send the video across for the wedding.

“Oh, I completely forgot about this video. Let me look at it again and send it across,” I admonished myself.

Having found the clip, I was immediately disconcerted as the thumbnail had captured a highly unflattering facial expression, probably as I was mid-sentence.

I pressed play and rewatched, bringing back to mind all the trials and tribulations of filming this innocuous, supposedly happy, and carefree video.

“Is it normal for people to hate how they appear on screen?” I wondered out loud.

Eventually, I decided to just send the video across rather than ponder over how I appeared or presented myself.

The day of the wedding came, and I had completely forgotten about the video request and the product I had managed to deliver and submit.

The excitement of watching my friends get married, albeit remotely, took over. I decided to dress up for the occasion, pretending to transport myself to the intimate gathering with lights, music and chatter – instead of sitting on my couch alone with a half-empty glass of wine that was emptying with unforeseen ease.

My friends looked breath-taking, but as the ceremony started to come to an end, I became anxious that the videos that all of us friends had recorded might actually be played for the guests in attendance. Thankfully, I had misunderstood the intention of the videos, they were to be viewed by the couple privately and not broadcast for public humiliation.

I took a screenshot of Tara and Alex and sent it to them with a quick congratulations text before shutting the stream and going to bed.

A few days later, I received a response from Tara and Alex.

“Thank you so much for your wishes. We got to see your video as well, one of the few that seemed warm and genuine I must say (this stays between us). You look so good and healthy! And happy as well. We can’t wait to come and visit you soon.”

I smiled at the message as I read it through bleary eyes, still in my bed in the first throws of waking up.

I wondered, staring at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth vigorously a few minutes later, “What a different perspective people have on themselves compared to what others have of them!” Toothpaste dribbled down my chin as I lost track of my brushing.