Glad I’m not that guy.

My clothes were not going to change themselves; my hair was not going to straighten itself; my make-up certainly was not going to spontaneously appear, yet I still could not tear myself away from the desperate train wreck that is “Surprise Weddings” on the We channel.  Five women travel to Vegas in hopes of forcing their boyfriends, yes, boyfriend (not fiance), into marrying them under the guise of being invited to see their partner’s new look on a makeover show.  The snarky host goes through each of the back stories given by the women as they detail how their relationships led them to the extreme measure of a “now or never” televised wedding.  Then, BAM, the guy is brought out on stage, asked to stay silent as his girlfriend uses a sentence or two to say, “marry me…now”.  There was one lady who exclaimed, “Honey, I think we’re reeeady!”, which was eerily reminiscent of the scene from Wedding Crasher’s when Jeremy Grey’s stage five, virgin clinger orders, “Don’t ever leave me…’Cause I’d fiiiind you!”

I swear shivers went down my spine.

Shell-shocked and speechless, the man is led to a room where he is allowed a 30-second phone conversation with a person of his choice.  After this ploy to drag out the show, I suppose there was a little more time lapse (maybe a couple hours) where the man eventually made his decision.  About a bazillion commercial breaks later a tuxedo-clad maybe/maybe not groom comes out onto stage and announces his decision.  While my blood does have a tendency to run cold and romantic comedies make me want to vomit,  I will admit that a few of the couples had the ol’ water works almost appear.  I’m not against love, but I am against a gun, or in this case a camera, pointed at someone’s head as they are guilted into doing something their partner knows he is not ready to do.  Anyone that has ever had any romantic interest in me knows that my commitment phobia extends above and beyond the point where everything must be on my timeline and happen when I am ready.  It’s not fair and has cost me more than one person I deeply cared about, but maybe I’ve been Disney-ized into believing my one true love will wait no matter what.  On the other side, I can guarantee anyone not respectful of my boundaries would never make it to being a person that piques my interest anyway.  Look at it as a catch-22 and a very thorough exercise in patience.

Knowing the hour I had to get ready was dwindling to something around 30 minutes did not stop the need to watch how many casualties this death sentence of a show would end with.  It was like watching a horrible nightmare, at least from the man’s perspective, that would neatly fit into an hour but the network had to drag out to two.  If anyone put me into a corner like that for two hours…well, no one puts Jessica in a corner.  I already know what my answer would be if he ever dared:  “No, but thanks for the offer, man.”  I would have been the person who walks onto that stage, sees the wedding attire, and walks straight back the other way.  No commercial breaks.  No 30-second call.  No 2-hour contemplation time necessary.

I have felt promising prospects slipping away, and somehow it is always at the moment where I am ready to entertain a relationship consisting of more than friendship.  If pretending to want a relationship way before I actually do means getting to keep that person in my life, then that relationship is not worthwhile.  Having to force those feelings to be on his timeline is just as unfair to me as it is to him when the position is reversed.  In either situation, having an overeager love interest or having my own relationship hesitation, I would firmly repeat, “No, I’m not ready at this point” and hope we remain friends.  That advice/suggestion also applies to any man out there “surprised” into marriage:  Say no.  Run and run fast.  And when you’re far enough away, hope you stay friends.

“M”, “M”, “M” delicious.

Sparked by vivid words,

stirred, roused, aflame yet alone,

awaiting his next message.

Crabby Assater: The Ode Continues…

The first poem was originally written as a literary “thank you” to my high school friend after she sent me some “hope you feel better/sorry you’re sad” flowers.  I promised her a part two a while ago to the tune “Aye Babay”, revised to “Aye, Abbay”, but never finished it.  Instead, I am writing about her move back to Texas.  Anything that makes me happy is a good call.   Moving 1,000 miles closer?  Great call.

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