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My Chemical Romance

When it's science versus romance, there's no telling who will win. But when they team up? It's game over.

by Natalie
posted on August 23, 2007

Credits: Zela Lobb

Not sure how many of you happened to catch NBC’s Science of Love (or who among you would admit to it), but for the sake of the comparison I’d like to make, I’ll out my own reality-TV habits. The premise of the show: “An eligible bachelor dates two women—one chosen by experts based on his biological and psychological makeup, the other chosen by him based on raw attraction.” Given that the broadcast was sponsored by “the experts” at PerfectMatch.com, it wasn’t the plot twist of the century when the bachelor opted for the scientific selection.

But as Frankensteinian as the experiment seemed, I found that the orchestrated steps of the televised proof matched up surprisingly well to the stages involved in being a bridesmaid in my college friend’s wedding. Or, more specifically, one of 13 bridesmaids in Rupa’s weeklong traditional Indian wedding extravaganza. And while I like to think of love as something that occurs naturally and not out of carefully designed situations, the meticulously planned weddings that result from love, I’ve learned, can conjure a parallel universe that is as far away from natural as Joan Rivers.

Step One: The Introduction of a Common Variable (The two subjects, paired according to scientific standards of compatibility, are bonded by a shared situation.) Wednesday morning’s wedding rehearsal allowed for introductions between the bridesmaids and the groomsmen. The groom, Nilesh, eagerly introduced me to my escort: “Natalie, you and Clint have a ton in common. He’s a total music fiend like you.” As it turned out, Clint and I had about three things in common—both single, both friends of the bride and groom and both having attended an embarrassingly high number of Dave Matthews Band concerts in college. He lived in Raleigh, worked as a stockbroker and definitely wasn’t my type. Still, by the end of the rehearsal I felt a growing kinship with him—born out of cracking jokes about the photographer (“Do you think ‘Photo’ is Joe Photo’s real last name?”) and Clint’s chivalrous fetching of a parasol to protect me from the sun as we waited for the priest to determine the best path for the groom’s entrance…on an elephant. “You nervous?” he asked after the run-through. “Why?” I laughed. “Just because there’ll be an elephant on the loose and 600 guests watching?” “We’re gonna take that aisle by storm,” he grinned. Cute, I thought.

Step Two: Triggering a Reaction (The instability of the foreign environment forges a reaction that strengthens the subjects’ bond.) The rehearsal was followed by a booze cruise around Long Beach Harbor—complete with a full bar, fireworks, an Indian buffet and a no-exit policy enforced by our midnight docking time. When I arrived at the bustling dock—a sea of jewel-toned saris and glittering accessories winking in the twilight—I noticed that my own black cocktail dress looked positively grim by comparison. I gazed enviously at the prismatic ensemble of one of my fellow bridesmaids. “Well, howdy, partner,” a familiar voice said. I turned to see Clint, decked out in gray hues equally as nondescript as mine. The crowd was moving toward the boat, and he offered me his arm. “Shall we practice while there are no elephants around?” he asked, gesturing to the gangway. Once on board, Clint fetched me a mojito and we took a seat on the top deck, where the dancing was already under way. I was mesmerized by the performances—Rupa hadn’t prepared me for the exquisite sensory overload on display. “Did you ever think you’d want to be Indian this badly?” Clint asked, reading my mind. “It’s amazing!” I said, referring both to the Bollywood spectacle unfurling before us and my own yearning to be a part of it. “Let’s dance!” Clint said, offering his arm. “Um, I don’t know,” I told him, suddenly petrified at the thought of my stiff Breakfast at Tiffany’s self drowning in this real-life Monsoon Wedding. “Relax, Nilesh taught me a few moves. Come on, we’ll be fine!” he urged. I downed the rest of my cocktail and acquiesced. Clint’s “moves” were an endearing mix between salsa and bhangra—the dance equivalent of an American tourist adding “o” to the end of every English word in an attempt to converse in Spanish. A few flamenco-styled twirls later, and my mojito, combined with the now-rocking boat, was making my head spin. “I need to sit down,” I told him. He escorted me to a seat and fetched a 7-Up and a samosa, keeping me company until we’d once again reached safe harbor. We said good-bye on the dock. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night,” I said. “This week’s about sticking together in sickness and health, remember?” he reassured me.

Stage Three: Catalyzing a Chemical Attraction (An adrenaline rush is induced in each subject—resulting in sympathetic biochemical reactions that the brain identifies as love.) The eve of the wedding was devoted to the sangeet, an intimate affair limited to a scant 400 guests. I’d spent the prior night putting the final touches on the toast I’d been nominated to deliver, trying not to disturb the still-drying henna on my hands, which had been decorated earlier during the mehndi ceremony. “You’re looking lovely, and about as green as you did on the boat,” Clint teased me when I arrived at the celebration. My heart was racing at the thought of attempting to deliver an eloquent tribute to the much-heralded guests of honor. Clint, too, was on deck to speak and was looking a bit anxious himself. A waiter whirled by us with a tray of Champagne flutes, and Clint plucked two from the low-flying silver saucer. “Best of luck to the happy couple,” I said, raising my glass to clink his. “We could use it,” he said, grinning. “And to Nilesh and Rupa, of course.”

Stage Four: Inundate with Stimuli (The subjects are exposed to a barrage of triggers, thereby activating the stimulants that have already been administered.) By the time the Big Day unfolded in a flurry of sunset-hued rose petals, Clint and I had been all but brainwashed into a romantic connection. The week’s events made for an unspoken understanding between us. Like actors who only date other actors, we both knew the stressful exhilaration that accompanied living in a fantasyland populated by free things, exotic settings and paparazzi. The grandeur of the affair gave off enough heat to produce a convincing mirage of coupledom—a mirage that led this weary traveler from the deserted end-of-the-night dance floor to Clint’s hotel room.

When I awoke the next morning, my hennaed hands had turned a shade of self-tanner-gone-wrong. I looked at Clint sleeping peacefully beside me and wondered if, out of the original context, our little affair would take on a similarly unattractive color. As
I gathered my bangles and other assorted bridesmaid trappings, I was tempted to rifle through Clint’s belongings for some sort of indisputable proof—drug paraphernalia, pyramid-scheme information packets, Celine Dion CDs—that we were not in fact compatible. In the world outside the Pasadena Ritz-Carlton, if Clint and I really got to know each other, would we have anything to build on, or would we be destined to rehash this wedding forever? I slipped out the door, careful to leave the mirage intact. Without hard data collected from extensive field testing, it was all hypothetical anyway.

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