The date was set, the agenda was sent and the dress code was specific.
Batik.
Late last year, my partner of more than 20 years J casually informed me that I was to be his Plus-One for a wedding.
It was the wedding of our beloved Iggy whom we watched grow up.
Iggy -- short for Ignatius Soewarno -- is J's nephew.
He's always a special little boy to us because he was born the year J and I got together.
In 2002, after J and my first date in Holland Village, I fondly recall accompanying J to withdraw cash at an ATM. "I need to give angpao for my nephew's first month," he said.
Even though J and I weren't super close to Iggy (our contact with him was sort of broken because poor Iggy's home was broken -- a bitter divorce), we kept in touch for yearly family celebrations: Birthdays, Christmas, Chinese New Year.
Overall, I was over the moon when J shared the news.
After all, we watched Iggy grow up and it is nice to know he will now embark on his own journey as a married man who has found his One True Love.
But I also had mixed feelings.
At 45, my era of attending weddings has officially come to an end. I've had my fair share of the noisy Yam Sengs and the endless groomsman parties of all my peers while I was in my twenties and thirties and the thought of doing that again is exhausting.
And then, there's this curveball of having to wear batik.
I do not own any batik.
You see, Iggy moved back to Indonesia -- J's home town -- following his parents' divorce.
Naturally, the entire clan would descend on Jakarta from all over the world for the wedding.
And of course, one has to wear batik for the occasion.
"You can take one of mine," J said, not understanding the fashion fiasco I was facing. "It's just a wedding lah. Take mine and wear. We're same size."
I walked over to J, kissed him lovingly on his forehead and politely declined.
I have seen J's wardrobe and there is nothing in there I would want to wear.
The following week, I called Stanley who, in his regional travels, has experience wearing not only batik but also a respectable fraction of the Indonesian male population.
True to form, Stanley rose to the occasion.
"So, this nephew of J's. He must be cute huh?"
"But don't worry -- any men who's said I do, I won't do," he said.
Mothers, wives, keep your men away from Stanley Ong anyway, just to be safe.
But I needed my sex bunny friend's advice and true to form, he delivered.
"Batik is tricky," Stanley said to me as he turned into the parking lot.
"You buy the wrong type, or wear the wrong colour, and it can be a total disaster," said Stanley, Regional Director, Cultural and Contemporary Affairs (Affairs being Stanley's only expertise within that title).
Indeed.
J had very roughly explained to me the basics of batik -- its origin, and the taboos of certain prints like the Keris or colour.
"But that's ok -- you're Singaporean. Nobody's going to judge you," J assured me.
Oh, trust me. There will be judgement.
Especially when I'm attending this as J's Plus-One.
Over the years, I have been introduced to all of J's immediate and wider family in Singapore, Indonesia, New Zealand and Australia.
And I take this in-law duty very seriously.
I'm not going to buy just any batik and end up looking like a waiter in Tambuah Mas.
Stanley had driven me to, aptly, Holland Village for my batik shopping.
His friend's family owns a relatively famous batik store at the shopping centre.
"Trust me. You'll find something there."
I was warming up to the idea as we rode the escalator up to the batik boutique.
How nice - I had first learnt of Iggy's presence in this world in 2002 when J shared stories of his life during our first date in Holland Village.
Twenty-two years later, I were to get something from Holland Village to mark a milestone of Iggy's.
Provided I could find something, I thought to myself as I stepped into Stanley's friend's shop.
Oh dear, I'm going to end up looking like one of our Singapore ministers in batik I thought to myself as I surveyed the sombre batik pieces.
"E, this is my dear friend Adam who is in dire need to get a fabulous batik for a wedding," Stanley said as he gave very subtle air kisses to E.
In the corner of the shop was a very elderly gentleman -- who Stanley said was E's father -- who was dozing off at the sewing machine.
Stanley neither wanted to wake the old man up nor end his life prematurely with a heart attack so he was very careful with both his gay volume and gay antics.
E, himself a very pleasant looking man who was clad in what else but batik, was given a brief and immediately assured me I will find something I liked.
But not from the display items.
E reached for his phone and called up visuals of various fabric to show me.
"These are all from Surabaya and they're one of a kind. I can show you a sample of how the silk feels from my shop, but once you decide which one you like, I'll have them tailored to your size and delivered to Singapore."
The choice selection was actually very straightforward.
One piece caught both mine and Stanley's eyes, to which E smiled with satisfaction saying "I thought you might like this one".
Over at the sewing machine, the elderly Mr Ang nodded sagely.
E called up an image of how the fabric would look like in the form of a shirt.
The base colour was black. It featured a phoenix and the magnificent spread of its tail across one side of the chest. The detailing of the mystical creature was set in bright gold and blue. Over all, it was brilliant and dramatic.
"He should make heads turn when he wears this," Stanley instructed E. "And in the correct direction please," Stanley had to add.
Lucky for me, I had more than enough time to get the batik on my hands.
The entire process would take about two months so by the time the dramatic batik piece was ready, it would be in early-September -- a good two months ahead of the November wedding.
I later texted J and showed him my choice.
He baulked at the image.
It wasn't so much that I had chosen a taboo print.
"$700 for a batik is just crazy," said J who himself is from a Crazy Rich Asian family.
That afternoon, I left the shop feeling every determination to look the part of his Plus One.
"Oh, don't you worry, Adam," Stanley assured me.
"You're almost there -- you're Asian, you're crazy. You'll be fine in Jakarta."
Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
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