One must often arrive at important readings early. Very early. Wait in line, get a good seat (or any seat), muscle one’s way through eager booklugging fans just to get out the door when it’s over. You know the drill.
Yet when one is attending a Matchy Matchy reading, it seems this prep is an unnecessary formality. Not needed. A waste of time. On the flip side, arriving early at such an event gives one ample time to observe (read: eavesdrop and record their every word while inwardly snickering) the overall demeanor of those who are likely in attendance because they are actually fans of the writer in question.
An alarming sense of excitement prevailed. The ladies in attendance (because what man would?) could barely sit still in their seats. Their dangly earrings and wrists full of bracelets jingled with every swish of their long, perfectly ironed hair, jangled with every full torso twist to the back of the store, craning their necks, wondering when, when the object of their affection would appear. “I wonder what she looks like in person?” “I wonder what she’s going to wear.”
Vapid lovelies? Not quite. They lacked a certain edge, a specific cynicism. These ladies fell in two camps: young unmarrieds & old marrieds trying very hard to look young. Surely they were other things as well, but what was most palpable was either the previous partaking of or the assured future transaction of marriage. All movement, all discussions, all slight murmurs oozed with either a future that most definitely included a wedding or their past in which they had a wedding. Case in point:
“I hope the man I marry is like Dex. I liked him so much, especially in the first book...I know I shouldn't because he cheated, but he was so torn up about it.”
“I know. But what about Darcy? He shafted her. I don’t want someone like that. I want someone who is honest.”
“Me too, I guess. I wonder what Matchy Matchy’s marriage is like? I wonder if her husband is like Dex? I wonder if she’s rich now.”
“I bet they have a huge house.”
The old marrieds version varied slightly. Replace “I hope I marry a man like Dex” with “I wish I had married a man like Dex.” Indeed. Critical minds at work, trying desperately to crack the important symbolism and overarching themes buried within the treasures of Something Borrowed, Something Blue & yes, Baby Proof.
While they were not vapid lovelies, they were, surprisingly, bookluggers. I didn’t expect this lot to trudge about with all three hardcover books in tow (must be hell on the acrylic nails), but there they were, stacked neatly on knees, wedding fingers as yet unadorned or tricked out with blinding Orange Countyesque baubles, waiting for their own version of Carrie Bradshaw to arrive and tell them how to land a man of their own or how to land a better version of the one they’ve already got.
A Vromann’s employee -- just as giddy, just as eager, wholly given over to the Matchy Matchy magic – announced that Matchy Matchy was delayed en route. Audible groans. Concerned sighs. One girl desperately cried out, “But she’s still coming right? Right?” Yes, still coming, just a little bit late. Large collective sigh of relief.
The overly excited employee (which I find quite suspect – anyone who works at a bookstore in the capacity of recommending good books should not be this enthusiastic about this author) offered a diversion to pass the time. “To make the waiting easier, I visited Matchy Matchy’s website and I printed out pictures of her and her family and some photos of one of the first books she ever wrote when she was ten years old. She made it out of construction paper. Isn’t that cute? I’ll pass it around so everyone can see. It’s just so cute.”
I could launch into a whole thing here, but I’m guessing I don’t need to. You get it. To filch a reading technique from David Mitchell, just imagine a huge, gaping, silent pause here and the painful passing of time as the pictures made their way through the eager hands and I wondered what bizarre world I’d stumbled upon.
Coming out of what I can only guess was an involuntary fight or flight response in which I stood up to look at actual books written by actual authors, I picked up snippets of conversation about Anne Hathaway being perfect. About the film being miscast. About the need to hold more auditions to be sure that whomever plays Rachel is sweet, perfect. Just like the character in the book. Several women who did not arrive together but who were now fast friends (for what sisterhood is stronger than the Matchy Matchy kind?) debated the merits of every young actress in Hollywood. Arms were flailing. Women from two rows up were turned around and kneeling on their seats so they could join in. The film rights have been sold for all three books. Of course.
Just as they began to launch into a detailed discussion of which young Hollywood actor should play Dex, the Vromann’s employee appeared looking as if she was concealing the most exciting information she’d ever been asked to guard. In a flurry of waving hands and gasps of air, she shouted: “She’s here! She’s here! Everyone – she’s here!”
All conversation ceased, the kneelers abruptly turned around and put their fannies in their chairs. A few people re-checked their cell phones to be sure they were off. Matchy Matchy was in the house.
