As I head unwillingly into my late 20s, the number of friends and acquaintances I have who are married seems to grow exponentially. I know a few people who are working on their second or third marriage and are just barely into their third decade. Marriage has always been ubiquitous, sitcom marriage episodes are always a hit and I can think of several kindergarten peers who eloped on the playground, but it is now storming down my door. I have come to accept this; I have resigned to the fact that any relationship that makes its way past the sixth month mark is fair game for marriage. There are definite plusses to this. Weddings. Weddings are fantastic, but like so many other things, their fantasticality is contingent on their budget. Seeing two dear friends who are deeply in love have a vine tied around their hands in the middle of the woods capped with a dandylion wine toast? Murder me. Watching two people who you know will cheat on each other get married in a palatial hotel ballroom with an open bar? The only thing that would make it better is if their inevitable divorce was an equally lavish affair. That’s where the plusses end. The minuses? They go on and on. Having your friends talk needlessly about married life, having to listen about the emotional rollercoaster that is buying appliances, and receiving plenty of unsolicited information about their sex life. ‘Starting a family’ is code for having unprotected sex. I don’t go around telling people that I partook in some serious family prevention on Friday night do I? Either way, marriage is very hard to escape, and I narrowly did.
When I was 21 or so I began dating a girl I met at a show. At the time we met she had a boyfriend, she lived with this boyfriend a few states and a no-bathroom-break five hour drive from me. Knowing all this, I decided it would be a good idea to pursue her. After a surprise visit and some grand romantic gestures, her boyfriend moved with his x-box and a sleeping bag to the attic where he would plot his revenge[1].
Around the time the newly titled ex-boyfriend was sharpening his knives I was in the midst of some serious family prevention. Afterwards, in what I thought was innocuous pillow talk, my lady friend asked if I would ever take ballroom dancing lessons with her. In my post coital fog I would have agreed to anything. I would have agreed to mastermind a jewel heist and author a book arguing that the earth is only 6,000 years old. I would have been so much safer had she requested either of these things from me. I gathered all my strength to open one eye and sigh out “sure.” She responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t take ballroom dancing lessons with me.” All of the blood in my body that had migrated south for the holiday booked a redeye back to my brain. I had walked into a bear trap. It had not yet snapped my leg in half, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it out. After some quick thinking, I did what I would most likely do if I was caught in an actual bear trap; tried to sleep it off.
She had left for class by the time I woke up and after a quick scan of the room, there were no save-the-dates that I could see. I relaxed. I thought that maybe the whole thing was a terrible dream.
A day later we went out to dinner. It was very casual. If I remember correctly, some of her friends tagged along. It was a diner style place; warped silverware wrapped in paper napkins. The meal went by without incident. As I polished off another tap water she asked me if I wanted to split some desert with her. I answered “sure.” As she put down the menu she responded “Good. Because I couldn’t marry someone who wouldn’t split desert with me.” What? Split desert? There was no way that was an actual qualifier for marriage. I was blindsided by the absurdity before I was sideswiped with reality; the bear trap had sunken deeper into my leg. I sat wooden faced and waited for the dessert to arrive. A slice of pie was between us. I imagined it officiating our wedding; a wedding predicated on ballroom dancing and pastry sharing. I took a bite of the pie and it turned to ash on my tongue.
I now had the fear. What could I do? I did not want to get married, I did not want to talk about getting married, but I did not want to stop seeing her without clothes. She was incredibly good looking, she had a good sense of humor too[2]. I could go on about her other wonderful qualities but I fear that I have already betrayed my deep and sensitive nature. But from that point on the fear was my constant companion. Did I want to go to the movies? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want to go the movies. Did I want Mike n Ikes? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t want Mike n Ikes. Did I want to go for the jumbo size for just fifty cents more? Good. Because she’d never marry someone who didn’t and the guy behind the counter was pushing for the upsell pretty hard.
While I don’t doubt that she liked me, I don’t think she loved me, or even wanted to marry me. She loved marriage. I happened to be marriable by her estimation. I have known plenty of people who feel this way; they love marriage. Often they love it so much they are willing to marry someone they don’t really love. I can sympathize with this, to an extent. I love Thai food. I will eat Thai food with basically anyone. I’ve gone to get Thai food with some real questionable characters. It doesn’t make the food any worse. Unfortunately, with marriage, the experience depends entirely on the person you are doing the whole marriage thing with. Also, it typically lasts much longer than most Thai food outings.
I loved neither her, nor marriage, so I did the only thing I could do. I broke up with her over the phone after my ex-girlfriend came onto me pretty hard.
Dessert
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