If I lived anywhere else in the country, all my peers (and perhaps myself?) would be getting married right now. New York cliché: People in NYC get married later. (Or not at all). Oh sure, I’ve been to a wedding or two (sometimes accidentally), but I’m not at all in a position of all of my friends are engaged or every weekend there’s another wedding. I know plenty of people who are in that position, their bank accounts hurting, their tiny New York closets crammed with cocktail to black tie attire. Typically they’re a couple of years older than me, or hail from a hometown much more traditional than my beloved San Francisco.
The fella I’m dating (yep, it’s still going on) qualifies on both these accounts. He’s been to countless weddings in the past few years and frequently refers to a number of ladies as “my friend’s wife”.
When he invited me to be his plus one for the next wedding on his calendar, we’d only known each other a couple weeks.
“I know it’s early, but I want you to be my date.”
The wedding was in Denver. A four plus hour flight and thus a whole weekend spent away. A weekend escape from NYC to a festive party in beautiful Colorado? You know I’m the biggest sucker for cake and dancing. (Plus, well, I kinda sorta actually like this guy.) It sure was tempting.
He sweetened the deal even more: “I’ll pay for your ticket.” You know I’m a sucker for free things.
“Should I go?” I asked pretty much anyone and everyone (including some of his friends: not my best idea).
“We haven’t known each other that long,” I sat in the kitchen, weighing the pros and cons with my roommate, “He could be an ax-murderer for all I know. What if he’s luring me to Colorado so he can chop me up into little pieces and sprinkle my remains along the Rocky Mountains?”
My roommate gets me, so rather than calling me dark, twisted, or crazy she instead said, “Well, I met him. I can pick his face out of any line up. If he murders you, I will get revenge.” Thanks, Rose.
“What if we hate each other by then?” I asked. The wedding in question was over two weeks away. I’ve certainly had changes of heart faster than that.
“I don’t see any way I could hate you,” he replied. I liked this answer.
“Okay,” I decided, “I’ll go. I want to go. Now. But if I hate you by the end of September, I reserve the right to back out. If you buy my ticket, you are taking that risk.”
It was a risk he was willing to take.
A wise choice on his part. The wedding is this weekend and I still very much want to go. I’m taking the day off work tomorrow, we fly out of NYC early in the morning. It’s my first wedding as someone’s plus one. I’m spending the whole weekend with this guy. I have a hunch it’s going to be a blast.
If I’ve been completely deceived and he reveals himself an ax murder, please remember me fondly. (Also try to get my blog made into a book, it should at least sell well post-mortem.)
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