The parents are now asking me to put together a matrimonial biodata. There was one that the they cobbled together for me a few years ago, using my work resume and anecdotal experience. I think I proofread and signed off on it at some point. Alas, the biodata, which was saved on my father's old PC, is no more (the PC crashed; I highly suspect that my explosive biodata had something to do with it. Ahem).
Now, everything (ie my future...ie whether I grow up to become a fabulous wife/mother or a miserable and curmudgeonly old spinster type with lots of cats to whom she's allergic) apparently hinges on my curriculum vitae, which will include, amongst other details, my education and work experience, appropriate measurements (height, weight...I don't think these things include THOSE kinds of measurements), personality, hobbies and interests and a seperate section where I can include a personal essay of sorts.
Part of me wants to put together the most ridiculously heinous biodata I can. Part of me wants to satisfy the 'rents. Then there's the part that actually wants to be curmudgeonly and old and spinstery and unattached. Of course, there's another part that wants to be all Emily Dickinson-ian and remain in a world of perpetual childhood. Worry not, you romantic types. There is a part of me that wants to eventually meet someone decent enough to hitch myself to for eternity, but I seriously don't care enough at this point to condense my life into a 1-2 page resume in order to meet this dude. This part, perhaps apocalyptically, still believes in romance.
For the record, this last, unacceptably lame and foolishly wide-eyed part of me is obviously a remnant of my teeny-bopper days. The other parts of which I'm comprised don't care very much for it and are working on exorcising it for good...because intelligent folks can't be stupid like that.