Diary of a Mad Bride (2 page)

W
e're in Frutto di Sole, a little Italian restaurant in the West Village that we've been coming to since the day we graduated college. Small and cozy, it's filled with checked tablecloths, cheap wine, and woven baskets of flour-dusted bread. Its owner, Rocco Marconi, a stocky old man with a Neapolitan accent,
⁹
calls our favorite table—the one in the back near the fireplace—the “Sirens” table. He claims it's because my girlfriends and I are so pretty. But I know it's because we're louder than most emergency vehicles. Which makes sense, because Frutto di Sole is where we toast promotions and curse unfaithful boyfriends. Where we celebrate birthdays and mourn birthdays. Depending on the year.

But tonight, Mandy, Jon, Stephen, and I have come just to relax and spend time together. Something that's been difficult to do since Mandy and Jon got engaged. Except it's already 8:30
P.M.
and Stephen's late.

MANDY

So we've decided that you and Stephen should get married.

Here it comes. The international conspiracy of married people just itching to have you join their cult.

ME

Like I've told you before, Stephen and I are happy with the way things are. Besides, I'm in no rush to get married. Maybe I'll
never
get married.

You should see them shudder when I use that one.

JON

Single women always say that.

Did I mention that Jon's a real ass? And that Mandy could have done a lot better if she hadn't freaked out when she saw thirty approaching?

ME

Well, some of us mean it.

MANDY

Of course you do. It's just that you and Stephen have been going out for almost a year now. You guys are great together. He adores you and he's gainfully employed. Why wouldn't you get married?

ME

I've known the cashier at my dry cleaner for over a year now and he's gainfully employed. Why don't I marry him?

MANDY

Because Stephen's in
software development.
It's the plastics of the 21st century.

ME

You sound like your mother.

MANDY

Yes. And my mother's a very smart woman. You'd be wise to follow her example.

Mandy's mother—like her mother before her—is a stickler for detail, a tyrant for tradition, and a devotee of Emily Post. Oh yeah, and she married the senior legal counsel for a huge conglomerate. Thankfully Mandy has broadened the example to include a career—in real estate.

ME

Well, you're right about one thing. Stephen and I are happy. Things are perfect. So why screw it up by getting married?

JON

It sounds like you're in denial. No offense.

ME

Don't be ridiculous. Why would your telling me I'm in denial offend me, Jon? On the contrary, it strengthens my belief that married people push single people to wed because they're uncomfortable with their
own
decision to devote themselves exclusively to one person for the rest of their lives.

That's right, Jon. Smell the coffee. No more Winona Ryder fantasies for you, you little perv.

MANDY

Well, it wouldn't hurt you to at least consider marriage. Let's face it, you're not twenty-five anymore.

ME

So?

MANDY

So if you don't want kids that come through a mail-order catalog, you'll need to settle down soon.
¹⁰

JON

Plus, looks don't last forever.

Jeez, I hate this guy.

Sure, I think about getting married. How could I not with all this badgering? But it doesn't feel right yet. It's not my time. It may never be my time. And that's okay. I'm a well-educated, intelligent woman who loves her career and has plenty of friends. And yes, I have a terrific boyfriend. I'm really happy. So why do I need to get married?

The answer is, I don't. And I certainly don't need to be married in order to have kids. Anyone who's ever played Doctor knows that. Besides, I can always offer sanctuary to Jon and Mandy's devil offspring, who will undoubtedly grow to loathe and despise their father the minute they gain the ability to understand the English language.

ME

Oh, Jon. You always know exactly what to say.

S
tephen and I first met at a birthday party for our mutual friend James. In his birthday cheer it occurred to James that Stephen, recently split from his onerous ex-girlfriend Diane, and I, single for so long that I'd blocked it from my memory, might hit it off. We did.

I knew nothing about computer programming and he'd never read
Round-Up.
But we both liked Dick Francis novels, Chinese food, and having sex. I don't exactly remember how that came up, but it did. So we did. Three nights later in his apartment. And for the record, it was
really
good.

But that night at James's party I had no idea that the sex would be so good. All I knew was that this handsome, thirty-one-year-old guy with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a smile that tilted to the left was single and didn't seem
like a stalker. Furthermore, he was intelligent (his knowledge of politics extended beyond sound bites), he was charming (he told me I had the prettiest blue eyes he'd ever seen), and he was endearingly awkward (after mistakenly calling me “Ann” he apologized profusely, then blushed for the next twenty minutes).

But what I remember most from our first meeting was his willingness to laugh.

Soulful and embracing, that laugh enveloped me. And I was gone. Lost in the euphoric haze that precedes first kisses and tells your heart to beat faster.

Four months later, after dating steadily, I happened to be searching Stephen's wallet for change of a twenty. Instead I found a picture of myself. Lovingly protected in a clear plastic slip and tucked neatly behind his driver's license—there I was, asleep in a hammock during a trip we'd taken to Fire Island. The words “Amy takes a nap” had been lightly inscribed on the reverse side with a pencil.

Right then, I fell in love.

S
tephen and I played hooky today. Instead of going to work we went to the beach.

It's one of Stephen's most attractive qualities—spontaneity.

Unlike the rest of us, when he gets an idea in his head he actually pursues it with gusto. So while my inner voice is telling me that I have to go to work and be a dutiful employee, Stephen's inner voice is saying, “Mmmm…beach weather.” And it's not like he's irresponsible. In fact, it's his hyper sense of responsibility that keeps him at the office for twelve-hour days. But today he saw an opportunity and
seized it. So who was I to be a party pooper? Besides, I may be a control freak, but even I recognize the value of occasionally cutting loose.

Or at least I did the minute my toes were wiggling through the sand and the ocean breeze was fluttering across my bare skin. And when my mind wandered back to work and deadlines and calls I had to make, Stephen gently calmed me with a kiss.

Mandy's mother is wrong. A ring couldn't possibly make this any better.

O
n a superficial level, summer is pure fun. Concerts in the park, tons of daylight and iced tea. But the truth is that Memorial Day to Labor Day is like one big walk down the aisle.

It's difficult not to feel a little disenfranchised.

Invitations fill your mailbox. Wedding dates thwart vacation plans. And television commercials use tearful fathers
¹¹
walking their “little girls” toward the altar in an effort to massage our heartstrings and awaken our fears so that multinational companies can sell us everything from expensive champagne to wedding insurance.

The business of marriage is being rammed down our throats and my gag reflex is working overtime.

For a person who's not engaged, I find myself thinking about marriage a lot. Which can't be healthy. It's like thinking about an insulin shot when you're not a diabetic. It'd be a fabulous boost but would ultimately kill you.

Not that marriage itself is bad. But the Cult of the Married is lethal. It annoys me, angers me, and, more often than I care to admit, it makes me feel like utter crap. As if being single says more about me than the fact that I don't have a husband.

Humiliating
: When people want you to marry so they can stop “worrying” about you. So they won't feel obligated to call you on the weekend or live in fear that when you're old and alone you'll expect them to entertain you.

The minute I expect Jon to entertain me is the minute I welcome anyone with a side arm to blow a bullet through my brain.

Frustrating
: When the love bug bites married people so hard that it causes amnesia. Suddenly all their memories prior to marriage are erased and they're unable to fathom another lifestyle.

This IS Mandy. Trust me, back when we were nineteen Mandy was
not
looking to get married. Sure, there were girls who were. But not Mandy. She wanted to lay anything that moved and wore a football jersey. Choosy she wasn't. And marriage was certainly not on the agenda. But here she is years later, reincarnated as her mother, preaching to the Single on the evils of going it alone.
¹²

And the Ultimate Nail in the Coffin of Decency
: The fact that men are rarely badgered on the topic of marriage.

Sure, the times they are a-changin' and the occasional homophobic parent will prod their son toward marriage. But parity on this subject? No way. When I'm with Stephen no one utters a word about our getting married. And if they do, they let it rest with our initial response that we're not interested. None of the needling and shaming. And among men, forget about it. It's rare that any man will turn to another man and say, “Hey, Joe, shit or get off the pot.” NO man wants the responsibility of pushing his friend to the altar.

It's like aggressively advocating vasectomy to your best buds—there are certain regions of life you just don't mess with.

A
fter a particularly taxing day at work Stephen came over to my apartment, where we went to bed early and played Connect the Dots.

With a can of whipped cream.

Anything that is vaguely round on your partner's body qualifies as a dot. You'd be surprised how many portions of the male anatomy are round.

S
tephen's been distracted and edgy these past two weeks and it's starting to get on my nerves. Last night he became apoplectic because I made plans to see Anita on Saturday night when he and I had already agreed to see a movie. So I'll reschedule with Anita, right? Wrong. It was like I'd told him I was planning on canceling his cable just
before the playoffs. “How could you do that? What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking it'd be nice to see Anita. But it's fine. I'll just see her some other time.”

“I certainly hope so, because we have
plans.
We've
planned
to go to the movies.”

“Relax. You're totally overreacting.”

This is where he became defensive. “I'm not overreacting. I'm reacting in a manner that is perfectly acceptable, considering the fact that we made plans, days in advance, which you completely forgot about. Now tell me you honestly can't understand what the problem is here.”

“Okay. I honestly can't understand what the problem is here.”

It wasn't the response Stephen was hoping for. But he was pissing me off. And I really didn't appreciate him acting like I was the one with a problem. One thing I'm sure of—
I
don't have a problem.

As much as I hate to admit it, I think the end is near. Either he's trying to precipitate a breakup or he's getting really possessive. Either way, it's a clear signal to bail. Which is depressing as hell. It's not like I was planning on marrying the guy, but I was positive we'd last well into my thirties. He just seemed so right for me. He's intelligent, he's handsome, and he likes four of my five favorite things: laughing, eating, reading, and sex. So what if he's not big on shopping?

And I was actually beginning to tolerate his fanatic love of sports!
¹³

How could this not work out? Why are some people destined for good fortune in relationships while the rest
of us play giddyap on the merry-go-round of losers and creeps?

Maybe I should just break up with him tomorrow night and see Anita on Saturday. After all, I haven't seen her since she started her new job at
Teen Flair
magazine. Maybe she knows someone I could go out with. Maybe there's a cute sixteen-year-old in her “Acne Before the Prom” focus group. Or maybe I should find a really old guy who's been divorced a couple of times. Someone who wants to subsidize our purely meaningless fun…

Ick.

What am I talking about? I can't dump Stephen. I mean, I could, but I don't want to. I love him. I was about to suggest we move in together. This is just my defense mechanism kicking in. But it's always better to be the dumper than the dumpee. Right? And what if he's about to give me the boot? Shouldn't I spare myself the humiliation?

Absolutely!

Except I can't imagine living without him.