Having reached a stage in my life where all my friends, acquaintances and well-wishers are all on the verge of, if not already, starting their families, and by proxy their adult lives, there’s a lot of pressure to live up to the expectations of, well, everybody. Sure, some people are all about the nuclear family unit with the 2.5 kids, golden retriever, goldfish, and a decaying elderly relative confined to a rickety rocking chair in the den, and I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought about the very same (sans the goldfish), but is it worth it? Sure, starting a family means there are other people available whom you can harvest organs from, or who are capable of identifying your corpse at the local morgue, but there’s so much you have to give up in order reap what miniscule benefits that exist.
In today’s unfortunate world of societal standards and laws, you can’t just kidnap any ol’ person/persons, claim them as your own, and chain them in various parts of the house and properly nurture their Stockholm syndrome. You have to enter the dating scene, or, barring that, the mail order spouse. Ideally, the courting phase would have both parties behave as they truly are, not pretending that kale doesn’t taste like dried vomit, or marathons are a great way to spend an entire Saturday (spoiler: they’re not). I can’t freely admit that my idea of a great weekend is staying holed up in my apartment, watching cartoons and eating cookie dough straight from the tube because that’s “immature” and probably a little pedophiley. So I have to lie about my regular weekend activities or, worse yet, actually leave the house to actually DO said activities. The first date isn’t even over yet and I’m already miserable. Not only do you have to lie about what you enjoy, you have to lie about yourself. Already this potential relationship is based on a lie.
When it comes to relationships, eventually the matter of “shared space” comes into play. Now, as one of those dreaded single “persons” you hear about around the camp fires of couples’ retreats, I absolutely love my space. Everything, from the front door to the farthest wall is mine. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, with a little effort, I could sprawl out on both of my couches and the coffee table and nobody can say squat about it. I can leave a trail of work clothes from the front door to the closet and not worry about anyone judging me for living like tasty, tasty pig. Sleeping arrangements? I have an entire bed to myself that permits me to sleep any way I choose with all the blankets and pillows. Now, the relationship shift happens, most weekends are used to take part in events that involve having to deal the open air zoo that is humanity. Your floor no longer doubles as your hamper, and you lose at least 50% of your sleeping space as your comfort level plummets.
It’s during this “sharing” phase where you’re introduced to the important people in your boo’s life, where the lies upon lies you set up at the onset of this “relationship” could all come tumbling down. Hopefully, by this point, your snookums is well aware that you weren’t nominated for a Nobel Prize in mixology, and you’re free to be honest, but let’s be real here, lying to someone to get them into bed is very different from lying to the people who could easily give the tried and true saying of “Ditch the zero and get a hero.” It’s when you meet these monkey wrenches where you have to become the personification of charm, wit, and class, basically Morgan Freeman.
As the relationship progresses the personal modifier shifts from “I/me” to “we/us”. People fully expect that when you’re invited somewhere that you’ll bring your better, more attractive half along. Should you forget to invite this person, you’re often bombarded with questions as to where they are, subtly implying that you weren’t the person they wanted to invite. Your social life hinges on whether or not your partner is available, or your friends trying to justify shunning you as they find your love to be a complete shit-brain. If you’re curious as to why your friends have kept you at arm’s length after this transition it’s because you became obnoxious (or more so). You slowly morphed into that old married couple with an arm around each other giving relationship advice as you smugly sip from the wine glasses in front of you.
With Spring, the season of love, right around the corner you have to ask yourself; why would anyone willingly subject themselves to what has to amount to torture? I mean after you check off sex and potential accomplice what’s left? Sharing my feelings? That’s why I have a mother, or a nonjudgmental puppy.
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Chris hates anyone or anything which goes against how he feels a sentient being with more than three brain cells should act. He hopes to use his “Encyclopedia Douchebag…ica” as a springboard into becoming a full-fledged, tax exempt religion complete with holidays and greeting cards, mainly so he can steal from its coffers. His hopes are…not that high, knowing that those who needs his guidance most, are unable to read his words… what with the extra flesh from their sloped, ape-like foreheads blinding their eyes from the truth.
When not acting like a complete bastard (which is not very often), Chris writes about all things video game related on his blog iNOOBriated, and his Twitter. Yep, he’s a neeeeeerd.