I’m going to a wedding this Sunday. One of the girls I went to high school with is getting married.
I’m not talking like my sister’s boyfriend’s cousin four years above me who I sometimes smiled at on the bus and they came to my house one Christmas, so they are obliged to invite me to watch them burn announce their love and commitment to another person. No, I mean like in the same graduating year and had sleepovers with and sat together at lunch like every day. This weekend this dear girl probably finalised her seating arrangements. This weekend I filmed two of my other high school friends doing a #neknomination video at pre drinks, went out and danced on a stage with a security guard and piggybacked my friend to KFC.
Yes, we are at different places in our lives, but only sometimes. It might seem like our priorities are opposed, but they ain’t. Seating arrangements are important, I just don’t have any to do. My girl is still probably keen for a boogie and a binge, but how socially acceptable is it to get messy when you have a spouse? Can you go out clubbing together without seeming like you need to be on a reality TV show? Logistically, does that even work?
I want to tell you all, “it’s fine, it’s cool, it’s rad,” but actually I’m not sure. Like I can’t imagine boyfriends and husbands work the same way. First of all, with husbands there is this big indicator around your finger letting every guy know not to even try that shit which already gives you a disability. And from there on if you breach that and get caught flirting, you’re not just being a quiet girlfriend getting caught up, you are effectively giving no fucks to the institution of holy matrimony. Clubs just seem like a dangerzone for those situations.
Perhaps my misgivings are borne from ignorance, but also I imagine when I marry someone all I will want to do on Saturday nights is look deeply and romantically into their eyes and cook food with them and then feed each other said food and go to bed thinking how happy I am. You don’t find that shit in a club.
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