The day sari’s taught me to enjoy being a kid

A few weekends ago I went to a wedding. Now I don’t know about you, but I love weddings. I love the over abundance of flowers and small children running around looking like little dress up dolls. But you see, the thing about Indian’s weddings, is that there is a proper over abundance of tasty free food. And of course the fact that it’s free makes it even tastier! But that wedding, was the first time that I spent about 12 hours in a sari.

sa·ri/ˈsärē/

Noun: A garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by women from the Indian subcontinent.

So this is the story of me, and my day in a sari.

The wedding was on a Sunday. A Sunday morning. Thankfully, the next day was a public holiday, so excess party was allowed. But that morning I awake and showered by 7am. I am not joking. On the way to the salon, we got re-routed about five times due a cycle race. Who bloody cycles around Durban at 7am in the morning!? So I finally got my hair done, rushed home to get dressed, and by 10am I was in my sari and feeling rather impressed with myself.

So we got the hall and there stood a menacing flight of stairs. I looked at it with steely determination. I would not trip.

I tripped.

I had to very indignately grab on to the railing to prevent myself from falling flat on my face. After a moment of rapid breathing, I recovered myself and walked up the rest of the way with my skirt hitched up to my knees. From that moment on, whenever there was the moderate chance of falling, I would grab my skirt and pull it around my knees. Imagine doing that, while looking like this:

So I made it out of the wedding in one piece. But do you think that was it? Well well well my dear, you would be thinking completely wrong.

Then we went to the bride’s house, who was my relative. I paraded between the house and a marquee carrying various sweet and savory goodies. I again adopted the tried and tested technique passed down by generations of wise old ladies called ‘hitched-up-skirt-no-falling-girl’. I would tell you what the technique involved, but then I would have to kill you.

And so most of the evening went by and I thought I would make it through it! But alas it was not to be. We then were instructed to dust the crumbs off of ourselves and move ship! Or more accurately, drive to the grooms house!

That was followed by even more eating! And as you can see, I had a bare midriff! That was even more disconcerting! I don’t know about you, but when I over indulge, I tend to bloat just a smidge. So trying to suck everything in while guzzling down even more was proven to be a very bad idea.

Then, as if things could not get any worse. I was expected to dance in that bloody sari! Dance! Like move around rhythmically while not tripping. Naturally I managed it… if only slightly indignantly with my skinny legs bared for all to see with my skirt around my knees.

But that day I learnt one thing, while saris were grown up and glamorous, I could wait to be grown up and glamorous… because I live for my short skirts and bows in my hair right now. I enjoy being a kid.

oxox Serisha

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About Improvising Fashion

17 year old who dreams of fashionable fairies and becoming the next Anna Wintour... only Indian, way skinny, and so much nicer.... better educated too.
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