Post-Wedding Thoughts, A Well-Rested Day Later

You know that time-clock that's ticking away, at an alarmingly-rapid and relentless rate? The one that's programmed in Personal Time Zone in your brain, first set years ago when you told yourself: "By age 25, I'm going to be married with one kid, and living in a nice suburban house with a picket fence and a neighborhood block parties, two short walkable blocks away from a respected grade school where my children will feel comfortable and eager to learn"?

Mine wasn't birthed in exactly that sentiment, but something similar. The age-of-married-by is 30, and being that I'll be advancing to the 2-followed-by-7 in less than three months, the ticks of the clock are ringing like gong-drum hits in High Definition, ramped up to 11, Spinal Tap style, heard through an unfiltered bullhorn. Thank the lucky stars, impending marriage to a female-who'll-be-named-later isn't a daily concern. Doesn't weigh my psyche down like an anchor. If so, I'd be going on tons more dates these days, I'll tell you that.

But having just participated in a pretty-much-flawless wedding ceremony, celebrating the official union of one of the most-inspirationally-functional couples I've ever seen, I can't help but wax prophetic about just when-in-the-fuck I'll tie the knot. Seal the deal. Start a family. Smash that inner-clock into a broken piece of technology. Just like I did with that annoying-ass chicken clock back in high school; my closest friends will recall this ("Woooww! Yeeahhh! Hey baby, shut the fuck up, you irritating son-of-a-bitch that should be grilled and smothered in BBQ sauce, not conceptualized as a rock-a-billy alarm designed to disrupt my precious slumber." Cluck cluck this.)

Of course, the first step to getting married is actually starting a relationship with a female who'll one day end up taking your last name. But, I'm still working on this part. Not as aggressively as I once was, but I figure, what's meant to be will be, and the more you push the issue and wonder "How can I speed this process up to ludicrous speeds," the more you'll feel defeated and want to run up in the Hallmark offices and kick in the front door, waving the .44, screaming, "Valentine's Day division, don't hit my partially-empty heart no more."

Weddings really are something special; family members all assembled, friends knocking back free shots with random uncles and aunts. Heartfelt speeches, and never-before-seen pictures of the bride and groom as wet-behind-the-ear youngsters. I wonder, just how will my inevitable (knock on wood) wedding commence---will my brother offer up a diatribe about how I was once a chubbier, quieter introvert who he'd thought would never meet a girl, let alone one who'd voluntarily spend time with me? Will my dad, who I've only seen cry once and for tragic reasons, tear up and hug it out, publicly? Will my mother serve stories of our endless ma-and-son dinner excursions, and how my new wife is one lucky girl to have such an engaging and loveable meal-eating partner? How about Gianna and Nicholas; after stealing the show as the flower girl, will Little G act an adorable fool on the dance floor, while my-man-Nick jacks the hearts of every female in the place, planting the seeds of his eventual-player lifestyle? And will I myself tear up as pictures of yours truly with the late Zoey (I'm a realist...by the time I get married, I'd be one fortunate and fate-defying son-uva if Zoey is still alive) flash on the projector, with some emotion-strumming slow jam providing the soundtrack?

Only time will spill the beans. Until these moments materialize from fantasy to reality, though, I've gotta keep on spending money on dinners with girls who I'll never take out again, and hooking up drunk-ily in bars with girls I'm envisioning great things with through Corona-goggles.

The early bird gets the worm, as they say. Or as I say, and more fittingly so here, the drunken gentleman gets the nerve to approach an otherwise-unattainable female. And who knows, that tall-order-of-a-sexy-conquest could just end up evolving from beer-soaked, cleavage-bearing T-shirt to white-dress-wearing, "I do"-saying Mrs. Barone.

Next round's on me, fellas.