she’s getting married, and I’m not?
Yeah, so do I.
Ironically, if it weren’t for me, Dianne wouldn’t be walking down the aisle today. Or, most likely, ever. I mean, who would want a one-woman axis of evil for a wife?
I guess Mike would.
Except that I don’t think he really does. He’s basically getting married by default.
When Jack and I moved in together a year and a half ago, Mike was left without a roommate. He halfheartedly tried to find a new one for a while, then told Dianne maybe they should live together. She said no way. Not without an engagement ring on her finger and a wedding date on her calendar.
Mike swore to me and Jack that there was no way he was getting married. Not to Dianne, not yet, maybe not ever. He supposedly looked for an affordable studio apartment for a couple of weeks to no avail.
The next thing we knew, he had gone over to the dark side and was shopping for diamond rings.
Rather, he was arranging a five-year payment plan with sky-high interest for the rock Dianne had already picked out.
Wuss.
“Are we almost at the exit?” Jack asks, lifting his foot off the brake and creeping the tiny car forward a whopping two or three feet before stopping again with a colorful curse. It isn’t the first time he’s said that—or worse—since we left Manhattan this morning.
The day started off on the wrong foot at the rental-car place down First Avenue from our apartment on the Upper East Side.
Our Apartment.
Funny how even after seventeen months of living with somebody, you still get a little thrill over the mundane daily reminders of domestic coupledom. At least, I still do.
Anyway, we had reserved a midsize sedan, but for some reason the counter agent couldn’t quite express—either because she didn’t speak English or because she simply didn’t have a logical explanation why—we got stuck with a car that’s roughly the size of a toilet bowl, give or take.
At least it doesn’t smell like a toilet bowl, like the rental car Jack and I had when we went to my friend Kate’s wedding in sweltering Alabama last summer.
Then again, the lemon-shaped air-freshener thingy hanging from the rearview mirror in this car isn’t much better. It kind of reminds me of that bathroom spray that doesn’t really eliminate odors, merely infuses them with a fruity aroma. My parents’ bathroom frequently reeks of country-apple-scented poop.
Jack and I keep good old-fashioned Lysol in our bathroom.
Our Bathroom.
In Our Apartment.
See? Little thrill.
After said thrill subsides, I consult the contents of the engraved ivory-linen envelope in my lap: an invitation with a tag line that reads Grow old along with me…the best is yet to be…a reception card and a little annotated road map of this particular corner of hell.
Er, Jersey.
“I think we’re about five miles away from the exit,” I tell Jack.
“That means at least another hour. Maybe we’ll miss the ceremony,” he adds hopefully.
But we don’t. We eventually find ourselves driving along a strip mall–dotted highway with fifteen minutes to spare. Unless we’re lost. Which, come to think of it, we just might be. I think I might have missed a turn a mile or so back, when I was trying to dislodge my numb feet from the cramped space between my purse and the glove compartment.
Jack’s getting crankier by the second, I have to pee, and we’re both scanning the sides of the road as if any second now we might see a picturesque white steeple poking up amidst the concrete-block-and-plate-glass suburban landscape.
“What’s the name of the church again, Tracey?” he asks, apparently thinking we might have somehow overlooked a place of worship nestled in the shadow of Chuck E. Cheese.
Without checking the invitation again, I quip, to break the tension, “Our Lady of Everlasting Misery.”
Jack laughs. “Really? I thought it was Our Lady of Eternal Damnation.”
I giggle. “Or Our Lady of Imminent Sorrow.” Then, the nice Catholic girl in me adds, “We probably shouldn’t be making jokes like that.”
“Sure we should. If Mike’s asinine enough to get married, we can make jokes about it.”
Okay, here I go again.
But the thing is…
Jack didn’t say, If Mike’s asinine enough to get married to Dianne.
He said, If Mike’s asinine enough to get married.
Period.
Which makes me wonder if he thinks only the Asinine exchange vows.
It’s not as if he’s ever said anything to the contrary.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking over at me.
“I have to pee.”
“Are you sure?”
I squirm and struggle to cross my legs beneath the skirt of the slinky red cocktail dress he earlier admired but callously didn’t remember to relate to the slinky red cocktail dress I was wearing the magical night we met at the office Christmas party, lo, twenty months ago.
“Am I sure I have to pee?” I echo, irritated. “Of course I’m sure.”
“I mean, is that all that’s wrong?”
No. I have to pee and there’s no room in this car for leg-crossing and I’m doomed to bitter spinsterdom, thanks to him.
My mother and sister were right. I should never have moved in with Jack so quickly.
Mental note: Next time you are cordially invited to live with someone, request ring and wedding date prior to signing of lease.
Dianne might be a bitch, but she’s a brilliantly strategic bitch. Here I am wedged into a citrus-scented Kia, sans ring or any hope of one, while she’s lounging in a stretch limo in a tiara with a glass of champagne in one hand and a prayer book in the other, serenely contemplating happily-ever-after with the man she loves.
Yes. Or, more likely, she has her ever-present cell phone wedged under her illusion-layered headpiece as she curses out some hapless florist who dared to put one too many sprigs of baby’s breath into the bridal bouquet.
Regardless, what matters—at least to me, and, undoubtedly, to her—is that she’s the one who’s getting married today.
“Hey, is that it?” Jack asks suddenly, pointing out the window at, you guessed it, a steeple looming above not Chuck E. Cheese, but T.J. Maxx.
That’s it, all right. Our Lady
