The Married Life

How Bevan Met Christine

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So, I'm married... let the laughter ensue. I have a friend who, for the sanctity of privacy will remain unnamed (Gabriel "Slate" Stutzky), that has come to a self-entertaining humorous method of answering my phone calls. I ring him up and his greeting is always the same, "You're married... ha ha ha ha ha hahahahahahaha." Indeed.
It's not that different from the moments preceding all of the "stand up-kneel-pray-stand up-kneel-Amen" rigmarole of our eye-catching Catholic ceremony (and for those of you asking yourselves 'what-the-f#ck?' - Christine is Catholic and we will do whatever keeps the girl happy, got it?). Life as we know it has not changed that drastically. Sure, we've got a bunch of nice new shiny free stuff in celebratory gifting for the lucky, lovely couple. They are things that we would have eventually been purchased and without a doubt, would have had to spend a small fortune on. They're great. I've got a mirror-refection set of stainless steel cookware that I'm very excited to use. I enjoy cooking. My comrades at work handed off a basket full of barbecue tools and gadgets along with a lovely card filled with gift cards from Home Depot. I'm quite thankful. Saturday I put those gift cards to use and purchased a mirror-reflection stainless steel gas grill. Getting the theme yet?
Apparently, the married life is full of silver colored shiny objects: pots, pans, grills, silverware, rings, bowls, kettles, and all sorts of this and thats that make the domesticated life not only simpler, but just a little more eye-catching and metro-stylish.
"The Wife" and I (as I'm still dog-tilting my head at times when the words spill out of my mouth - as though I were catching a strange sound from just beyond a door) are running things almost exactly the way we were a mere three weeks ago. I've been chastised for leaving my wedding ring on the bathroom counter after showers and washing my hands. I'm not forgetting intentionally but perhaps learning the necessity of keeping it safe and then putting it back on. It's a symbol. A symbol that I love and respect my wife... and more importantly, as Christine would so eloquently put it, a symbol that I am "Off of the market." Yes, the girl owns me. I'm the wolf brought in from the cold, she's nursed my wounds, and now I'm going to stick around the house for a while because I've got it so much better with the warmth of a gorgeous good woman than in the gnashing teeth of the urban wild.
Ah, I wouldn't have the energy to be conniving or deceitful. I'm thirty-years-old. I have no desire to gallivant around the clubs of twenty-something-hipsters all out on the town drowning their inhibitions and desperately on the hunt of getting laid.
Oh, I remember those days. I also remember the last time I tried to pull one of those 24 hour party people nights and came bashing through learned life lessons the hard way; hung-over, displaced, dejected, and taking far too long to bounce back from such a blow... physically and mentally. I clearly remember the point were I was "too-old for this shit."
So, now in my old age and comfortable bondage to a ball-and-chain, I'm content. I'm happy. I remain vain in certain aspects. I continue to work out, watch what I eat, hunt down indie artists and new music, and continue to read intellectual stimuli... mostly because I desire to remain interesting to people who might be of the like mind -- or interesting to those who find some mild fascination to such things -- and I wish to look good naked.
My hair goes gray, my beard mockingly speckles salt and pepper madness, and my eyes go all football shaped requiring me to pay closer attention to detail than before. Though, through all of those woes of men growing old, I have a woman who loves me... or can at the very least put up with my crap for an extended period of time... and really, what more can you ask for? Aside from a prenuptial... which I didn't do. We got married in California, she's going to get half of my shit anyway. But, if I mind my Pints and Quarts I'll remain married and my music collection will remain safe.
For all of you loners and once-bitten-twice-shy fellows still rambling about the cold... just give it up. You're never going to land Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Jessica Simpson, or Lindsay Lohan (though I'm not quite sure why you'd want the female embodiment of Robert Downey Jr. - ). Brad Pitt doesn't want to be your guy pal (he's too busy saving New Orleans and foreign babies). Stop going to the same bar in the hopes that you're going to see some girl that you saw there once, that you're never going to fucking talk too anyway. Find a girl that pays some kind of attention to you. Find out if she likes Star Wars or James Bond. If you find one of those girls, grab them up as soon as possible, they're the Pink Panther Diamond of Women... For all of those girls that couldn't care less about stupid guy things, play them a couple of Nick Drake albums or Tom Waits - Heart of a Saturday Night. You're in. Then we can start a poker club or something and watch Chuck Norris movies instead of being nagged about watching THE NANNY DIARIES. Good Luck.