For most people, the gap comes on day six of a rained-out vacation, or when they wake up next to a dead tranny Thai pirate hooker. For me, that gap comes every Sunday when I read the Washington Post's wedding announcements. I become this bitter little misanthrope who is bound and determined to shed this mortal coil in a Golden Girls-esque divorcee commune, if only so I don't ever have to read about myself in a wedding announcement.
I'm sure all these couples love one another madly, are wonderful friends, pay their taxes, and are good all-around folks. I'm just also not sure why they're so willing to present themselves as materialistic nitwits.
For your consideration, I offer last Sunday's fabulous couple. My eye twitched a little to discover that they signed a cocktail napkin exclusivity agreement at their first meeting (is that what I should have been doing all these years?). And the lucky young man spent their first date introducing her as "Mrs. Donnelly." But, hey, maybe it was love at first sight.
But then I remember love at first sight doesn't exist, because that's just infatuation. Infatuation is bells and flowers and chirping little birdies. It's candlelight and mythology and maybe a princess fantasy or two.
Love is far better and more mundane. Love is going to 7-11 at 3 a.m. for Alka-Seltzer, and not really minding, because your partner has a killer stomachache. Love is hearing the same story for the hundredth time, and being kind enough to laugh in all the right places. True-to-life love stories are often so boring that you fall asleep halfway through the telling. If Amy and Tripp have that, all the best to them.
Anyhoo, back to the delightful blessed joining of two souls. I was down with their wedding, Georgetown preppyset, tennis tournament-oriented as it was, until I got to the 32-MINUTE VIDEO TRIBUTE. Would any guest in their right mind want to sit through that? Wouldn't they rather, y'know, mingle with the friends and family they rarely see, wish the happy couple all the best, and maybe eat some food? No, I suppose not, when there are videotaped "luminaries" to observe.
So, last Sunday, hungover, in bed, and nibbling on plain tortillas, I was hit with the scariest conclusion of my life: that I'm not as nice a person as I should be. I'm snarky and bitter and have a pessimistic streak that pops up every Sunday, when I'm weak and vulnerable and my brain is sloshy from the previous night's excesses.
And then I hit the less-scary, but far more important conclusion: If I get married again, I'll just have cookout and some kegs. You're all invited! Burgers or dogs? How 'bout some relish? Can I get you another beer?
In the comments, tell me what section of the newspaper brings out your inner snarkbitch. Or, describe your behavior at my imaginary wedding. Bonus points for a hypothetical kegstand.