Pondering the wondeful thing called marriage
By Todd Foltz

It takes me longer and longer to reach every wedding I'm invited to anymore.

And that's not just because my blissful friends, half a decade out of college, are spread across the country like a giant dot-to-dot reminder my parents have drawn of how my life should be (Grandkids? What grandkids? Isn't that an extra value meal on McDonald's breakfast menu?). No, my reticence comes from a sinking feeling that the only way I'll ever get a date is to go to an Arabic restaurant.

I just served as an usher for one of my best friends, extending to 10 the number of wedding parties I've been in since graduating from college. As I sat at the bachelor party and listened to the other groomsmen tease the groom about getting tied down, I realized that the only ball and chain in my life is my luck with the opposite sex.

And I could live with that. The problem is that the dilemma brings to mind the twangy tune from "Hee Haw" that goes something like this ... . "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." Not having a date on Friday nights is one thing ­ "The X-Files" are on, after all. But having Grandpa Jones wailing in my head seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

A problem I've noticed among twentysomethings is that it's too easy to confuse love with sex nowadays and even easier to settle for the former when you can't find the latter. A world almanac I bought in 1993 reports that each and every day in these United States there are something like 100 million acts of voluntary sex.

Now, there are only 250 million people in this country. That's 250 million and one, counting me. Say 50 million are too young for sex and another 50 million are too old, too tired, have a headache or only have me for an option. That leaves 200 million people each having sex once a day with each other. So on any given day, it's clear that I'm the only available person in America who isn't getting lucky.

The wedding I attended recently was in a rich suburb of Cleveland, and when all the guests had arrived, it became apparent that I was the only single person remaining from our college clique. One couple even announced that they were expecting, which I mistakenly took to mean my share of the beer money. This sudden suction into marriage of my college friends amazed me, considering that that our college relationships were more "Sid and Nancy" than "The Big Chill."

There wasn't even a bridesmaid to pick up at this wedding. Even Becky, who has been my official "date" (read, you sleep somewhere else, young man!) at past weddings, had been hit by the semi of love along the road of life. Or rather, the Volkswagon bus of love. She showed up with a long-haired Green Party activist who wore Birkenstocks to the wedding and nothing to the bed I had the pleasure of sharing with him.

I shared a hotel room with two couples ­ one whose wedding I was in a year ago and one whose wedding is coming up in just a few months. The latter was Becky and the Hippie. Of course, there were only two full beds, which meant I got to play Uncomfortable Chaperone Man (cape optional). I did learn that sleeping three to a bed beats the Thighmaster any day. Since I only got one cheek on the bed per night, I had to sleep on different sides to avoid overdeveloping one leg.

At the reception, when it came time for the groom to throw the garter, only one other person joined me on the floor: the ring bearer. Sure, he was an athletic little cuss, but he was already up three hours past his normal bedtime, and I had a good three feet and 100 pounds on him. I figured a well-timed shove with my hip would knock him out of contention, but the scamp somehow still managed to make off with the garter.

Another wedding, another missed opportunity.

But lack of love opportunities aside, it was fun seeing another pair of friends venture into the future together. And I know we'll remain close. Now, none of my married friends has ever tried to play matchmaker for me (the phrase "look in the mirror" pops out of their mouths all too frequently), and that's fine. Because in my book, the only thing worse than being the only single guy in a group is being another Jonathan Silverman.

Todd Foltz gave up on a safe and happy life when he moved to St. Petersburg, Fla., a couple months ago. He's currently getting his notary public seal so he can make some bucks presiding over nude weddings on the beach.

return to the Shut up, I'm talking page
return to the LIES home page
return to the A&A home page