I’ve never been married. I’ve never even been close. I’ve never even dated someone who sparked that desire in me. Well, I guess when I had too much to drink I could see myself rotting away in an old age home next to Swede just because, at the time, an existence without Swede seemed impossible. It still seems that way, but as the lovelyÂ Alice WalkerÂ stated, “the way forward is with a broken heart,” so fuck those former notions.
Recently, a friend of my sister and I got married after knowing a guy for all of three weeks. None of us were invited, it was a spur of the moment situation after having met the fella online. They got married at a city hall in California and will be celebrating “back east” (as us east coast folks call it) with a party in early September. Of course, we all immediately judged, rolled our eyes, as she is one to occasionally act a bit erratically so we all assume the marriage will fail.
But this incident made me recall my friend Meg from college, and her similar behavior. We were both undergrads and she went on a date with the one of the English Ph.D. students who had pining after her; by the end of the second date they were married. That was almost 10 years ago, and surprisingly, to us cynics who laughed in her face, they’re still married. They’ve yet to have children, but they travel the world, he lectures at various colleges and she’s on her third book — sounds like an ideal life to me.
Unlike some of myÂ colleagues, the idea of planning a wedding sounds like hell on earth. Planning anything, for me, is just something I couldn’t care less about and is actually the reason why I putÂ this particular colleagueÂ in charge of my next (and last!) birthday extravaganza. While I appreciate the details after the fact, I do not care to do them myself. My ideal wedding would consist of someone else doing the work (Jennifer WrightÂ and my sister, Jennifer would be a perfect match), and me just showing up in my obscenely expense dress so I can party and drink too much champagne. And as a very non-religious person, the actual ceremony could be conducted by a log for all I care. Although the log fromÂ Twin PeaksÂ would be my first choice.
My sister has been married since 2007. It was the same summer I moved into my own apartment in New York City. Since then, she and Scot have bought a house, had two li’l men, bought a second and more fancy house and now they both drive around in brand new Volvos. Since I moved into my apartment, I have been laid off from not one, or two, but three jobs. I have fallen in love. I lost him not once, twice, three times or four times, but five times (at least this is where we currently stand on that front.) My writing career, although not where I hoped it would be at my age, has really blossomed. When I say it’s not where I hoped it would be, that just means that HBO hasn’t called becauseÂ Lena DunhamÂ got there first. I’ve lost friends and made even better ones, and despite the fact that I as I write this I have a patch over my eye from a really horrifically infected sty from mass amounts of stress, I can say that I’m so fucking happy there are no words. I’m doing exactly what I wanted to do my whole life: sitting in my pjs and writing controversial, and sometimes thought-provoking essays from my bed.
However, in case you haven’t realized it yet, my life is lacking because I don’t have a man (as they say.) Sure, I had Tattoo Guy for a hot minute, but really? There’s only so many times you can explain to someone that “mull over” doesn’t mean “forget.” My sister wants cousins for her kids and I’m the only hope! My parents want a goddamn granddaughter! My father would love for me to have a partner in life because “let’s face it, Mandy, you’re doing what you want, but you’re not raking it inÂ David SedarisÂ style.”Â Thank you for pointing out the obvious, dad.
So after we heard about our friend getting hitched in California, my sister and I snuggled down on the couch to watch some movies so we could avoid the topic and any further passing judgment. She had never seenÂ Girls, so we watched it in its entirety… and for those of you who have watched it, can you see where this is going?
JESSA MARRIED THAT CREEPY DUDE PLAYED BY CHRIS O’DOWD.
“You should have married him,” said my sister.
“You do realize that’s a character in a TV series, right?”
“He’s creepy and rich and hot… so your type.”
“When did I date a rich guy?” I asked.
“Well you have fucking creepy, hot and complete asshole under you belt, and since the next one is bound to be that too, he might as well be rich.”
What did we do? We looked on Craigslist for people who might want to get married.
But before we go any further and anyone calls me a gold digger, which I’d never be (I’ll take the poor artist a million times over before a rich prick), I want to get married for the experience of it. I want to cross it off the list. If I fall in love and have an amazing whirlwind romance, then great! If it happens and we get divorced, well great! We just joined the majority.Â
It was really sad to see on Craigslist how many people who were either really desperate to get married or do it for a financial gain so someone could get their permanent residencancy. I wanted none of that, so I posted a ridiculous ad stating that I was looking to get hitched.
And… although I didn’t ask for any financial gain, it was flagged less than two hours later so I didn’t get any responses.Â PFFT.
Next step: online dating. I have always been adamantly against this because I believe in meeting someone organically, and always have, but for the sake of marriage, I’m all over it.
On a side note, I trashed the original post of this that included my silly ad, because someone suggested I was racist due to the fact that I’m attracted to white men. I would like to point out that I have dated men of all ethnicities, but by and large I am mostly attracted to white guys. This isn’t racism, this is personal preference. So if you’re wondering where your comment went, it wasn’t deleted, I just put up a new post because WordPress wouldn’t let me edit the first one without leaving a wonky empty box in the middle of it.