If you don’t hear from me for the rest of the summer*, I’m sorry. I’m probably passed out in front of an open bar at some function hall or other, the remains of a tray of gin and tonics scattered about my prone body. This is because I’m spending the whole entire summer at weddings, or else at a baby shower. (Less gin at baby showers, and more’s the pity. That’s really when we need it.)
This brings me to my next point: If you’re getting married or engaged, or moving in with a boyfriend, or having a baby, don’t tell me about it. I am so serious. I am sick and tired of all you people and your mental health and your relationships and your growing up and whatnot. It’s making me feel much more emotionally crippled than I normally feel. It’s like being a little person and standing in front of one of those fun house mirrors that makes you look squatty.
Yesterday, I actually snapped. I was out at drinks with a bunch of my friends — two of whom are married, to each other, and one of whom has recently started dating a handsome Italian anthropologist that she met online — and one of them started telling me about a girl we know who’s getting engaged.
“Her ring is gorgeous,” she said. “It’s an orange diamond” — at this, I kicked my only single friend at the table and whispered zircon — “with all these little diamond chips around it. It would look great on you.”
“Well, that’s pretty hypothetical, since it’s obvious that I’m never going to need an engagement ring.”
“Oh, no! That’s not true…”
“Oh, yes! It probably is, given that I haven’t dated a man for longer than two months since I graduated from college nearly ten years ago. And don’t tell me there’s someone for everyone, because there clearly isn’t. Just do me this one favor: Don’t tell me any more stories about people getting engaged, falling in love, or having babies. Call me when someone gets a rash. I don’t need reassurance. I need schadenfreude.”
In other news, I think “schadenfreude” would be an excellent name for a cat. I’d get a couple, to facilitate the crazy spinsterness, but I’m allergic.
* There’s not a chance in hell of that happening. I can’t afford therapy. Lucky you!