As you regular readers are aware, I was once married. That means, not only
do I have a lovely sentimental video of myself dancing to a Whitney
Houston song, I also have a group of married friends that I used to spend
time with when I was “under contract.”
This Saturday night, we’re
getting together to catch up.
Quite a few things have changed since we
last hung out. Most of my friends now have kids. Several of them have
moved deep into the ’burbs. And me? Well, I have been given the
opportunity to make an ass of myself in this publication — an opportunity
I like to think I’ve embraced fully.
The plan is to meet at one of the
couples’ homes well outside of the city. The e-vite, an
artistic masterpiece containing a few old photos and a snazzy
illustration of a martini glass, simply reads: “Let’s party like it’s
1999! Bring something to sleep in just in case we get a little bit crazy!”
Cute. It’s like watching a divorced parent get ready for a date. You’re
excited that they’re excited, but you wonder if they really remember how
to do it any longer.
I arrive at the party, grab some red wine, and we
immediately dive into the mildly awkward attempt to find common ground.
Which means, my friends do their best to seem like they’re more fun
than they really are, and I attempt to sympathize with them over
stories of leaky septic tanks and chafed breast-feeding nipples. “Yeah
… I hear ya. I had chapped nipples once. Well, it was more like
rug burn, I guess. But I’m feelin’ your pain, Sue, I’m feelin’ your
pain.”
As we stumble through our conversation, I find myself
fielding small children as if I were Holden Caulfield. I don’t
remember thinking this when I was a kid, but apparently it’s as fun as
fingerpaints to hang out next to the nonprocreator and raise a little
hell. One kid has me catching plates that he’s knocking off the
shabbychic credenza I’m sitting near; another smashes her face right
into the floor in front of me; and a third (this one’s my favorite) is
standing arm’s-length away rifling matchbox cars at my head. Cute kids
you’ve got. I know a guy in the city who can score some Ritalin. Um,
maybe you’d like some?
After an exhausting round
of “catch-the-Hess-truck-with-myface,” the children are hurried off to
bed, apparently so the adults can start to play drinking games. “I Never”
seems to be the choice of the group. Ooh-ooh-ooh! Let me start! Let me
start! Um — I’ve never played a creepy game of “I Never” in a room full of
doughy, marriedpeople, who are way too eager to tell gross,
married-people, sex stories, before ... Shit. Someone get me a
beer.
The game goes on for an hour or so, and by the end, I’m
exposed as the freak of the bunch. Really? C’mon people. What the hell
do you do for fun? I mean, by the time you’re in your late 30s, who
hasn’t had sex in a cab? Right?
The fun starts to wither just like the
Mylar party balloons purchased for the event, and we begin to lose party
animals faster than we would at a backyard barbecue at Michael
Vick’s. Realizing my only options for the night are to stay sober or to
stay there, I manage to keep the booze to a minimum. I thank my friends
for a lovely evening, check my new head wound one last time, and
deliver the required line about having to do this all again soon. As I
walk to the door, one of my friends’ wives asks, “So Mr. Writer-guy, are
you gonna make fun of our little party in your next column?” I
politely laugh and reply, “C’mon! I’d never do that.” Shit. Someone get me
a beer.
