Saturday night, aka the Hookup Olympics in the college bars. I was on the scene but only as a spectator. I have a girlfriend so being out on Saturday is the definition of pointless. But the boys wanted to drink, because we can’t conceive of any other method of socializing, so I rolled up to join. Rob also has a girlfriend and also has no reason to be out, so we got some of this thick beer with cinnamon on the rim and threw darts on the outer orbit of the room. All this neon, all this getting it in, and then there was us: A couple grown-ass men in the corner, looking like we were afraid of girls. And I am afraid of girls. If I walk within a three-foot radius of a vagina then my woman will somehow just know it and I’ll wake up with a Swiss Army knife pressed against my scrotum.
I won darts by accidentally tossing a double bull. I’d been aiming at the twenty. Then I got a text, mom’s engaged. Some Jewish lawyer from AA. She’s never even had a drink before. She probably just went there to prey on vulnerable men in recovery; smart. If you were wondering where I got my old schemes from, look no further. Anyway, Fred’s getting himself a stepdad. I had some more beer and then found myself getting pissed that the wedding would be dry.
They’re over 50 and in love, which I can’t comprehend as a possible reality that I’ll someday inhabit. I’m still trying to conceive of a universe in which I’m not a young person and my girlfriend is not a short young baby who looks like a high-schooler. I wonder how people can be happy any other way than the way I have it right now.