Dear Cary,
My ex-boyfriend, who is now my best friend and roommate, is marrying a woman I can't stand, and now all sorts of ugly, hidden emotions are bubbling to the surface.
The details would give "My Best Friend's Wedding" a run for its money, really. Chris and I dated briefly, intensely, nearly a decade ago. I was his first love, he was mine, we were stupid and young and cocky and selfish; we broke up in a knock-down, drag-out fight and didn't speak for almost a year. After college I moved across the country and we maintained loose correspondence. Then after a more serious but still failed relationship I moved back to our old college town and took a temporary job with his company. He generously offered to rent me a room in his house without contract so I could stay as long or as short as I wanted, and his kindness was definitely undermined by a desire to try things again.
It was awkward at first, but we settled into an easy dynamic and made surprisingly great roommates: We flirted, sometimes fooled around after a few too many drinks, but were content pursuing other people for more serious fun. My temporary employment turned into two years. I began to date one of our closest friends and the three of us shared the kind of friendship that would constantly have people asking me, "Which one is your boyfriend?" I, being the center of attention, was perfectly happy. Then Chris started dating Dawn, an older, prissy waif who didn't like his friends, who brought out a whole other Chris -- the Chris who feared growing old alone. We weren't too concerned at first -- surely he would see that she was unbearably boring, hear her clock ticking, notice how she changed his personality! He did and yet he didn't, and a year went by. In the meantime he cheated on her and was constantly on the lookout for an exit. We continued our flirtation, even had sex a few times. We were there for each other, loved each other, were constantly amazed by one another. It made her insane that I lived with him, and I liked that.
Then last month he proposed. To her, I mean. An $8K ring, a trip to Europe, romantic dinners and roses galore. Not being much of a relationship person, it goes without saying that I wouldn't really want all those things, but now I WANT THOSE THINGS. And most important, I don't want Dawn to have them. After spending a week in the drunken haze of denial (during which time all our co-workers and friends came to me wanting reasons, answers, for him making what to us is a fool's choice) Chris told me that it was time to move on, that our "relationship" was through, and I've been seriously depressed ever since.
Now my questions: I still have a boyfriend, sort of. Obviously I don't deserve him since I've cheated on him, but he and I are compatible in so many more ways than Chris and I ever could be. I chose him over Chris in the first place. So why, oh why do I want Chris to be single? His fiancée is around more than ever -- apparently the rock on her hand makes her more bold -- and I have managed not to say a single word to her. They'll be married in 10 months. He'll sell the house that I've called home for almost three years now (a record, for me), take the cat -- that I bought him! -- and disappear into married life leaving the remnants of his bachelor years behind. Am I suffering from insane jealousy? Yes. Can I do a thing about it? Not that I can see. But at present I'm teetering wildly on destroying what friendship we have, and I don't know how to handle all these changes with grace. I'm not going to run after him pleading, "Marry me! Let me make you happy!" -- I don't want that, anyway. So how can I move on? What I want is to let him go, to stop being angry and feeling like I somehow lost. Oh, and for him to regret his decision every second of every day for the remainder of his life, endlessly pining for me.
J
Dear J,
You know, I'm a married guy, and some of my best friends are married, so I'm not speaking of everybody. But when I look around me and read letters such as yours I'm reminded of what really blows about the whole institution of marriage, how it places a fairy-tale gauze of happily-ever-after over raw social climbing, manipulation and financial maneuvering. In the process it disrupts vital social networks. It isolates people.
True love is all well and good, and people make their own choices. But what bothers me is how once we're talking about marriage, suddenly nobody is allowed to say, This is a sham and a shame. It's like marriage is the ultimate trump card. Play that card and, Aha! All of a sudden your social network doesn't matter anymore. This is marriage. This is a wedding. They're getting married! So shut your mouth.
Yeah, sometimes it's all a bunch of baloney if you ask me. And the way people fall into it is appalling.
So what can you do? I dunno. I'd love it if just once, when they come to that part in the pre-game ceremony where the umpire says if there's anybody here who knows any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, if just once somebody would stand up in the bleachers and open her mouth and say, "Yeah, I know a reason. Because this guy was a friend of mine, a very good friend, and we had a house together and lots of good friends, and we're losing all that, and we knew him, I mean we really knew him, not like this chick but really knew him like on the floor puking drunk and up till 4 afraid of dying and sick with the flu and diarrhea, we knew he didn't like corn flakes because of a childhood accident he never talks about, we knew he had no backhand and always travels after he dribbles, we knew he never read 'To Kill a Mockingbird' but did the Cliffs Notes instead, we knew this guy like a brother until this brittle, frosty chick got her nails done and dug them into his back and dragged him up here like one more expensive rag doll. We lived with this guy and now we're going to have to move. We grew up with this guy and worked with this guy and we were this guy's real family and now we're losing all that. We were maybe the only real family he's got, and now comes this frilly Victorian one-act play complete with costumes and scenery to say none of what we had with him even mattered, none of that was real, it was all just kids play and now we're adults and putting away our childish things and setting up house for real. Well, all of that was real, it was probably as real as it ever will get. You're walking away from your real life, my friend, your real friends, your real house and everything that's real in your life today, and you're doing it all for some glossy mirage of a fairy-tale life. So screw you and screw your special little invitations and your ridiculous bridesmaid outfits and your rented glassware and your aphasic caterer and the whole fraudulent kissy-kiss merging of families and pompous parental aplomb."
And then just quietly excuse yourself.
As the ridiculous white limousine with the spray-painted windows and the tin cans tied to the bumper rolled out of Palookaville headed for the big time, you'd have a bit of explaining to do. But maybe, just once, it'd be worth it.
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What? You want more?
Shares