So You Think You Are Glemer
I was at the College’s very first Grand Dinner (after five years!) when I was outwitted by my own colleague. Apparently, the organizer was outrageously advanced by choosing the most daring theme on earth for an Islamic institution – Glamour and Fusion (Daa…).
It was highly anticipated that everybody would be busy making appointments with established designers, hoping to look glamorously fused when walking on the red carpet, or when receiving an award for the King and Queen of the Night. But the pathetic fact was, almost everyone was awfully fused. They were still helplessly stuck with the dogma of stigma of a traditional dinner code. The result was a total fiasco of fashion disaster – a boring combination of batiks and black trousers for male guests, and a tiring mixture of shawls and modern baju kurung for female invitees. I think they hardly put ample efforts to adhere to the theme (Well, what can you expect from a religious college?). Having said this, I had to say that the organizer was dreaming in fantasy.
I was not really excited with the dinner. When I was asked by the director of the program to be the MC, I refused, not wanting to really master the ceremony, or else I would definitely conquer all the prestigious awards especially the most-twisted King of the Night. As I was selfishly busy with my own study life, I didn’t want to sex up my mind with other unnecessary things, besides my thesis writing. I wanted to remain in my comfort zone. On top of that, I just wanted to take pleasure in walking freely on the red carpet, getting the attention, and simply enjoying the foods (The foods were not really up to my expectation, by the way). That’s all. So I objected their request rather impolitely.
I started looking for the attire the night before the grand dinner. I went to all over my friends’ houses in the middle of the night, searching for the right style to match with the required theme. Finally, I ended up putting on a Justin-Timberlake-like style (the jealous guests, who dressed like Mak Mahs and Pak Abus, called me Justin Terbalik).
Dear organizer, I might not be Islamically presentable, but at least, I did my best part to follow your wishful whims and fancies. So be it. Okay, so I got a Loyalty Award to recognize my five years of tireless service in the college. Thanks a lot. For all those hardship of pioneering struggle I have faced, nevertheless, I just wish a better material return. Okay okay okay, I shouldn’t ask what the college can give for me, but what I can give to the college. JFK. Understood. All right. Got it!
Oh, when the King of the Night was announced, I was dumbfounded. I didn’t even consider the winner as my competitor. My wishful limelight was stolen. Only then I realized that I was not in the position to win because I was forced to be a last minute judge for the dress, even though I refused rather rudely because I wanted to win. They were so politically smart. And one more thing! The winner apparently was the director of the program (so he was the Almighty). Wait wait wait, don’t jump into a wild conclusion, you naughty readers!
So who is the real king? With the gorgeous Queen of the Night Despite its notoriety, this night I remember.
So who is the real king?
With the gorgeous Queen of the Night
Despite its notoriety, this night I remember.