“Honey, Will You…Uh…Hey, Where Ya Goin’?”

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June approacheth.  

That means wedding season. 

To me, June merely means  the summer is here.  

You see,  I’ve never married.  Those who know me or who have read this blog for any length  of time, know this all too well.  Marriage confounds me.  My childhood examples  So, it’s really not surprising that the instituation of marriage (and relationships in general) exceed my emotionalo bandwidth.   

If anyone is keeping score or questioning my sexual orientation, I can tell you that at one time, I lived with an alcoholic reprobate for seven years which was six and a half years too long, but other than that, I’ve never even came close.  I’ve never had that “serious’ conversation with a man.

Or a woman, for that matter.

I’m 51 now and I doubt seriously if  I’ll ever marry, much less experience that deep abiding love Hollywood and Harlequin novels want us to believe exists in the world.    I think I stand a better chance of being strangled with tampon strings on a Tuesday afternoon by angry, red-headed, Lithuanian barristas turned terrorists, still miffed about ABC’s  cancellation of “Who’s The Boss”.

And that’s OK.   Marriage..or it’s absence..cannot define me.

But it’s damned important to a lot people.  

I’ve known some women who’ve done little else but plan their weddings–even when no partner was in the picture.   I’ve even watched several dreamy-eyed romantic hopefuls mentally choreograph their engagement scenarios.  It’s always perfect, too.  Flawless. 

He’d be dashingly handsome in a tux and would offer her a single, long-stemmed rose as she sat on a hollowed out log in a verdant meadow, with lovely  flora all around her with Walt Disney’d anthropomorphic fauna revelling in the couple’s happiness.  

He’d get on bended knee–gently pushing aside a smiling squirrel wearing a top hat–only to present her with a perfect 3 carat diamond ring –Tiffany setting, of course.  Then, he’d ask her to make him the happiest man on Earth.  

And as if on cue, all the joyous woodland creatures would erupt in applause and then hang banners or something; maybe doffer a toast or even break out into a festive song and dance number.

Her tears and ear-to-ear smile would be her only response.  She’d fling herself in his arms and they’d automatically live happily ever after.

She’d never nag or gain weight.

He’d always be neat, remain faithful to her and NEVER, EVER make oxygen depriving ‘stinkies’ in the bathroom.   

Yeah right.

Well, reality trumps fantasy…not because it’s better, but because it’s almost always worse.   Things rarely work out as we envision them.   Disappointment is an unavoidable fact of life.

Well, here are some prime examples of disappointment.  They come in the form of some very public marriage proposals that went terribly, horribly wrong.

Okay, that one seemed fake.  

And another thing:   guys please don’t engage in getting engaged at a sports arena with a JumboTron proposal UNLESS the object of your affection is really outgoing and a huge sports nut, too.  

And then there was this “proposal”:

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Steffi only asked what many woman really wants to know.   Why?  Because the sad reality is that money often sweetens the deal.  And no bitching about that comment, OK?  Hold your water people–it’s not liky guys don’t marry (and often stay married) for money either.

And then every once in a while, when the planets align perfectly and the Fates are in a good mood and feeling generous, some people are granted the opportunity to get it right.

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Peter Gabriel’s incredibly poignant song, “Book of Love’ is the perfect accompaniment for this piece which ostensibly, should have ended at mark 6:39 when they walked out of the camera shot together hand-in-hand in silence.  But that criticism is just the old TV/visual perfectionist coming out in me.   The woman in me…or what’s left of that particular gender assignment…found the video fairly sweet.   

Does it give me hope? 

Nah, but I have a MUCH better idea as to how to construct very large, wooden arrows.

.c   

3 comments

  1. Great post Laurie. Those rejected proposals are brutal. I fear I may be asked for my hand in marriage while I’m watching a sporting event. Of course, that’d be odd since I have no boyfriend, but it’s still a fear.

  2. June can kiss the cleft of my arsehole.

    I have married. Odd, but I was married to an alcoholic reprobate for 6 and a half years. I can relate. I remember cleaning out the apartment after she left (oh, yes I had no intention of severing the relationship. I’m not terribly bright. You knew that.) and when I pulled the box spring off the bed I was greeted with a sea of empty booze bottles. That explained a lot. The bitch could have left me a half empty bottle of Jack to drown my sorrows.

    This need that people have to shack up is completely alien to me now. I was one of them for a long time but having done the deed and married the shin humping pig bitch that is my ex-wife I find no solace in doing it again. As a matter of fact the thought of it sends me into fits of apoplexy so deep that I rarely awaken from them in less than a week. Such is the horror like nature of my existence.

    In the interest of not turning my comment into an insurgent blog post that made it thru your defenses I will sign off. You’re better off not having done it, I can tell you.

    P.S. Let’s not go into the $250,00 in retirement savings that she neglected to mention the interest on that year we filed jointly. I’m still paying THAT back to the IRS.

  3. As always, great post! My first marriage proposal was during the halftime of the 1986 Super Bowl. I was watching it with Marisa at her apartment in Austin. My best buddy – Andy – was there. My ‘proposal’ went like this: “This game is boring. Let’s liven it up. Do you want to get married?” Man, was I an idiot or what? My second marriage proposal was at the summit of Monarch Pass in Colorado. Mountains as far as the eye could see from the top of the observation deck. I think I got it right this time.

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