What I mean is this: at twenty-something, when you have dated a million non-calling, unemployed, no-car-having, idiot, mamas boys who live like they rent the MTV beach house, you start thinking maybe you should reconsider your options.
Ironically, I met my future husband at 20...
Meet Mike:
I'm willing to bet most of you have already met Mike, and one of you actually is Mike (and if you haven't read my blog, Mike, you are in deep shit).
Mike is my husband, and he is awesome. I didn't realize marriage was going to be awesome. I thought it would be more like an episode of "Rosanne" or "Everybody Loves Raymond." You know, he would eff something up or fail to do something obvious, and I would bitch at him and he wouldn't get laid for a week, then he'd beg for forgiveness and I would reluctantly give it, but only if he would never do [insert failure of husbandry here] again.
Reality:
Mike leaves his laundry in the dryer. This is annyoing, so I kind of bitch at him, but it doesn't last long because after a glass of wine or two he begs for forgiveness, I give in, we hit the bedroom and he promises never to leave the laundry in the dryer ever again.
The next day the laundry is in the dryer.
Whatever. I give up, and I love him to0 much to really get particularly mad.
Here's why:
Last week I was a bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding. This was a giant wedding, so there were 10 bridesmaids (plus a junior bridesmaid and four flower girls, but that's neither here nor there). Mike is friends with all of these girls because we've all hung out plenty over the years, but this Saturday night, he wasn't just a husband, he was a hero.
So all us ladies get ready in the bridal suite at the hotel. After we're ready, we need to get our stuff out of the bridal suite, so I offer my room. Seven of us cram ourselves and our crenlin into an elevator and set off to the room.
I knock on the door. "Oh huuusband!" I say, in my 50s housewife voice.
No response. So I open the door, and there's Mike.
In his underwear.
Behind me are seven bridesmaids with somewhere to be, so I yell, "Bathroom!" and Mike dives for it just as seven women in matching champange and ivory satin, three-inch heels, full make-up and three cans worth of Aqua Net holding up our updos storm the room and litter the place with shoes, bags, brushes and sprays and leave -- as quickly as they came.
I imagine my husband standing in the middle of the hotel room -- which now looks backstage at NY Fashion week -- in his boxer briefs, wondering what the hell happened.
From that point on, he wasn't just my husband. He was every bridesmaid's husband. My Mike fetched drinks, held high-heels, snapped photos and toted handbags for any single bridesmaid who would let him.
And he looked wicked handsome doing it, I might add.
He then drove myself and three other tipsy bridesmaids back to the hotel, playing our favorite songs along the way. When we all got back to the hotel room, everyone was ready to ditch the dresses and change into comfy clothes before hitting the hotel bar.
Mike wasn't sure what to do when all the girls starting unzipping their dresses. So what does my amazing husband do?
He got into the closet and shut the door. Honest to god. The man was in the closet.
I'm sorry, ladies, he has no brothers, but should cloning become a real possibility, feel free to contact me. We can talk. I know I got a good one.
I know I got a good one too. If I were to say every reason why, your readers would throw up in their shoes. Because the world is cynical and maybe I was too once. Until I met my good one.
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