Is she the one?
Dear Dale:
I’m seeing this woman. Several, actually. But one of them, I actually like. And it’s not just the sex. We go out too. But not to fancy restaurants or museums or any of those other chick places guys have to pretend to like to get laid.
We do fun stuff, like watch action movies or sports. And not just because I want to. She likes them too. Especially baseball. We go to games, get drunk and shout at opposing players. Sometimes, I forget she’s a woman.
I often think about her and hardly ever cheat on her. And when I do, I feel bad. Like I’ve done something wrong. So much so I’m actually thinking of cutting all the other chicks loose and becoming a one-woman man. Maybe even bite the bullet and get married. What do you think? Is she the one?
Signed,
I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Dear ITLWOTIFT:
Whoa! Let me stop you right there. This is what we in the advice business call crazy talk. Good thing you wrote me before doing something stupid like buy a ring or propose.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to put you down. You’re not the only guy to make this mistake. On the contrary, this is how they get you. By being nice.
Let me guess: for years, ever since you came to your senses and dropped out of high school, you’ve been living the good life — getting high for breakfast, drunk by noon and banging every broad you can — but then, one day, like a gambler who’s stayed too long at the table, your luck runs out and you meet a nice one. A woman you like and whose company you enjoy.
Pretty soon you start thinking about changing your ways. Like having a bit of orange juice with your vodka.
(Health is important.)
Or not getting ripped till noon.
(Morning is the most productive part of the day.)
Or not spending so much on strippers.
(Do they really love you?)
Or using a condom with your other chicks.
(Just think of all the trips to the doctor that’ll save.)
Or, in extreme cases, getting married.
(Who wouldn’t want to sleep in a bed with no piss or vomit stains?)
Big mistake. Because marriage is the first step to divorce. Let me explain.
It starts with the proposal. You think you’re just having an expensive dinner, with a few bottles of wine to wash down all that fancy food, but, by the end, she’s maneuvered you into marriage.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” she asks, “if we spent the rest of our lives together?”
“Yeah, I guess,” you reply, all the while eyeing that last bit of Bordeaux.
Moments later, she’s calling everyone she knows and telling them she’s engaged. How the fuck did that happen?
The next day, before you’re even out of bed, she starts making up the guest list. All those people you hate and swore you’d never speak to again… they somehow get invited.
And not just family. Former friends and neighbors too. The sort you usually only see in court. Probably because someone they know, and you hate a just little bit less, has also been invited.
Whereas your real friends, the guys you met in lockup or crack houses, are barred for being a bad influence. But at least you put your foot down about the bikers. They raised you after all.
As for spending your day off sitting in your underwear watching football… forget about it. You’ve got napkins to look at. As well as rings, flowers and food. All of which is expensive and none of which you’re going to have any say over. You may think your buddy’s dick picks are quite classy and but just try suggesting him as your official photographer.
And then there’s the bullshit. It’s endless. Acting like you like your in-laws. Pretending to give a shit about religion so the minister will let you use his church. Having to convince people it’s worth getting up early for.
And then, just when you thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, comes the big day: not only is your face sore from all the fake smiling, your tux is too tight, you’ve lost the ring, the main of honor is giving you an erection and you’re really starting to regret having chosen chili for dinner last night.
Meanwhile, the pastor, with breath so bad it totally hides your farts, drones on and on about God and duty and how happy the Almighty is that you and your girlfriend have decided to stop having fun and get on with the business of being as miserable as everyone else.
Then, suddenly, as the acid finally kicks in, you realize: it’s just a giant circus, a ritualistic humiliation, with you as a bear balanced on a ball. The minister is a lion tamer and the whole point is to showcase your submission to society.
That and a merger of assets. Do you, this house-and-a-car take this six-pack as your lawfully wedded husband? And, for some reason, she says yes.
You thought for sure she would eventually come to her senses and realize what a bad idea it is to marry someone like you. But no: she’s going through with it. And now it’s your turn.
“No!” you scream, and run for the door.
But her brother, a semi-pro football player — the only reason you’ve let this charade go on for so long: season tickets — had a hunch this would happen and so, positioned himself at the end of the aisle.
“Too late,” he says, as he crushes you into the carpet. “Everything’s already been paid for.”
Well, who can argue with that? And so you allow him and his friends to drag you, kicking and screaming, back up to the altar where the minister, totally unfazed — guess he’s seen that before — just continues on.
Next thing you know, you’re sitting at a table with a bunch of people, trying to eat soup with a fork and wondering why everyone is looking at you funny.
Which makes you paranoid as hell. So you try hiding under the table but your wife — what a concept — grabs you by the collar and pulls you back up.
You consider yelling “Fire!” and making a run for it but decide to wait till your brother-in-law, who is sitting right beside you, goes to the can.
But then, to your immense relief, you realize: it’s The Truman Show. You’re Jim Carrey, everyone else is an actor and this whole thing is just a show for the audience back home.
And then you’re fine. Because you’re a good sport. You’re not going to ruin everyone’s fun by letting on you know.
Just like that surprise birthday party your biker buddies threw for you at the strip club. You knew all about it. Because they planned it right in front of you.
(They were so wasted they didn’t realize you were there.)
But you still acted surprised. What a night that was.
After that, you’re Mister Easy-Going, hugging everyone you meet, laughing at their jokes and suppressing the urge to hit on the maid of honour.
(You’ll get her number later.)
So much so your wife — there’s that word again — has stopped crying and even seems to be enjoying herself.
As is her family. Her mother has stopped giving you the stink-eye, her father has invited you to go hunting — there’s nothing in his tone that suggests he’s going to shoot you by “mistake” — and her brother, now that he’s got several shots of whiskey in him, admits he almost did the same at his own wedding.
Eventually, it’s over. The food and booze are all gone, grandpa is asleep in his chair, some teenager has his head in the toilet, a bridesmaid was banged in a car, one of your biker buddies made a witty remark about your sister-in-law’s tits, your brother-in-law took exception and the police have long since sorted everything out. All that’s left is to go home.
The next day you wake up and realize: it wasn’t a show. It was real, you’re married, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, finally, you get that weird story some student told you about a guy who wakes up one day and discovers he’s a giant cockroach. Talk about a Halloween party gone wrong.
Now, I got to admit: there are some good points. Meals made from real food. Always having a date for New Year’s. Never having to clean up after yourself.
But it isn’t all flapjacks and blowjobs. Far from satisfying women, marriage generates a whole new set of demands. Full-time employment, for one. You may think that making just enough money to get wasted on a regular basis is the perfect work-life balance but, believe me, she’s got other ideas.
What’s worse, now that you’re living together, she’s going to expect you to come home at night. Maybe even spend the evening with her. So no more three-day drunks for you. The only thing you’ll be binging on is Netflix.
With her sitting right beside you, “helping” choose the movie. You may want to watch the latest splatter flick but is there a love interest? If not, odds are, she’ll veto it. And just try switching over to a porno and see what happens.
And then there’s the future. Which, believe it or not, you’re supposed to care about. You may think you’ve got it all sorted out by planning to go to The Drunken Skunk on Tuesday for half-price hotdogs but she’s got other plans.
Shit like buying a house, having kids and saving for their education. You didn’t even graduate from high school and she wants you to stop going to strippers so your kids — which you don’t even have yet — can go to some party college, turn into liberals and break your heart by becoming artists.
All of which costs money. So you’re going to have to work. Hard. Maybe even get a second job. As well as invest in dodgy schemes that are sure to rip you off.
(It’s amazing how expensive it is to lose money.)
That and sign up for insurance. Fire. Liability. Life.
(I’ve never understood that. Why would anyone bet on their own death?)
The hardest, of course, is fidelity: the idea of limiting yourself to one woman may seem doable during the ceremony and for a few hours after but, by the end of the honeymoon, will definitely be exposed for the hopeless fraud it is.
Because there’s just so much talent out there, most of it totally untapped. The cute college girl with a bouncy ponytail. The bored bohemian in a beret. The shy accountant with crooked glasses. The no-nonsense businesswoman in a pantsuit. The jaded stripper with spangles on her tits. The waft of cunt is everywhere. Are you really going to let that go to waste?
Of course not. Which means it’s only a matter of time before your wife catches you with another woman. That it turns out to be her sister is just bad luck. In our bed, she points out, a little too loudly for your hangover.
Next thing you know, you’re living in a moldy basement, eating junk food, watching porn and getting wasted. The good life.
And yet, sometimes, you miss her. The touch of her tit. The taste of her sweat. The weird way she stacks dishes or wrinkles her nose when scratching her ass. The funny noises she makes in bed. The smell of her farts.
Just like that fortune cookie said. I had just finished a feast of fast-burning carbs and fat drenched in MSG — I like my Chinese food American-style — when I cracked it open and read: “All the world is bound by the ties of love. Why did I think that I alone would escape?” Why indeed. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Dale
Hi. If you’ve made it this far, you probably liked the story. So why not check out some others at my Medium page? https://medium.com/dear-dale
