(Tonight! On “Not Married, No Children!”)
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I’ll share a not-so-secret secret with you. I have a list, and it keeps growing. No, it’s not criminal priors, but thanks for the compliment.
I don’t know where you are in your personal dance of life, but I’m about to turn sixty-one … or, as they say “down here” in the occasionally-Deep South, I’m fixing to turn sixty-one. Fixing, as if aging was something you could repair. (think a leak in the Fountain of Youth, slapped up with duct tape)
There are some interesting emotions involved in living to be sixty years old, surprise being near the top of the list. Lately, I’ve noticed myself mentally listing things that I have to admit simply aren’t going to happen in my life without magical intervention, or felonious behavior.
I’ve hit a point in my life where I humbly surrender to some realities. Not a lot of realities, but some. For example, there are things I’m never going to say, conversations I’m never going to have, situations I’m never going to face / enjoy / avoid.
Some examples:
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I will never have to leave the theatre early due to the CIA needing my pre-dawn advice.
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I will never be asked to attend an emergency parent-teacher conference because of that “firearm incident.”
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I will never have to explain why I’m late getting home, unless I get mistakenly butt-dialed by a manager for the Yankees.
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Auto Mechanic: All five of your vehicles need a new transmission.
Me: Stand back. I’m about to cull the herd.
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Nobody is ever going to nominate me for a Grammy, an Oscar, a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize, or as first choice for the next Sports Illustrated cover.
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I will probably get out of here without ever having to attend a Cub Scout jamboree, which is a lot like a Marketing Department meeting, except more mature.
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I will never be confused with Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp, although getting mistaken for Keith Richards remains likely.
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Middle Daughter: Dad, I need bail money.
Me: Again?
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I will never have to change a diaper. I mean, someone else’s.
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I will never get to pay an orthodontist. (some things in this list aren’t really all that sad)
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Elementary School Teacher: Your son, who identifies as a transitioning transgendered vegan vampire, failed Recess.
Me: Again?
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I will never be subpoenaed to appear before a Congressional committee investigating questionable investments I made due to profits from my many platinum-selling albums.
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I will never be referred to as “Khan.” Or “plaintiff.” Or, hopefully, “Senator.”
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I will never substitute “on time” with “fashionably late.” I will always associate “late” with “rude.” Unless I’m late for the Spanish Inquisition.
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Wife: I’m leaving you for another woman.
Me: Dinner ready?
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And speaking of marriage, there’s a whole basket of nuptial-related things that I’ll never do, or see, or say. I suppose I’ll never do “I do,” unless I bump into a really bored retired person who idea of wild sex is Chinese takeaway.
As I’m sure you’ve read or heard, there’s an unspoken rule for writers: “write about what you know.” Since it’s a rule, I regularly ignore it. Here’s everything I know about marriage: I can correctly spell marriage, but not if there’s a lot of noise in the room. I’ve nothing against the institution; in fact, some of my best parents were married. I just can’t get a grasp on the logistics of full-time, day-in-day-out shared time. Heck, some days, I don’t even like myself.
According to at least one source, 18 August stands to be the most marriage-manic day of the current year. In fact, says the Salt Lake Tribune, 28,633 American weddings were scheduled to go over-budget on August 18th. Wedding guests will spend a combined billion dollars on gifts, attire, and accessories. That’s a lot of toasters.
Last year, the average cost of a wedding in America was just under $26,000, and that’s not including tips, the honeymoon, or bail money for the best man. The average wedding lasts about 25 minutes, or about as long as halftime during the Super Bowl. But take heart, whichever parent pays for the wedding: at twenty-six grand, the average wedding costs just over $1,000 a minute, which is way cheaper than a Super Bowl ad.
At least your daughter isn’t a desperate brewery.
In a related story, the average cost of a divorce in America is $23,000, unless there are attendant felonies. Conversely, if you get all “irreconcilable differences” in Denmark, there’s an easy out. You fill out an online form, pay sixty bucks, and in less than a week, you’re back to telling shameless lies in singles’ bars.
By the way, Denmark is consistently ranked as one of the world’s happiest countries.
I’m just saying.