Born in Kenya of Indian heritage, I came to the United States at age 6, settling with my family in upstate New York. Growing up Muslim in suburban America, I missed out on the typical “Dawson’s Creek” method of courtship: the flirting, the fighting, the making up and making out.
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So my friends and I had high expectations when it came to marriage, which was supposed to quickly follow graduation from college. That’s when our parents, many of whom had entered into arranged marriages, told us it was time to find the one man we would be waking up with for the rest of our lives, God willing. They just didn’t tell us how.
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Yet now, at 29, despite all of my “meetings,” I remain unmarried. And in the last five years I’ve exhausted the patience of my matchmaking aunties and friends who have offered up their husbands’ childhood playmates.
I began to panic when I realized people were no longer even asking me how my husband hunt was going. I was too old to be hanging out at the mosque weekend school, where scarf-wearing teenage girls in tight jeans check out the boys from a distance (while pretending not to look). Yet I was not at the point where I’d consider importing a spouse from the subcontinent.
Full story: Close Enough to Touch Was Too Far Apart