At Times I Am Downright Maniacal

I think we need to face a few facts here. Marriage ain’t easy. True story. Hell, what, half of marriages end in divorce. Good odds for betting on a horse but not on the rest of your entire life!

Know why it happens? Not truly because of horrible arguments, tantalizing infidelity, or mind-numbing monotony. No! “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” so they say, and the crucial first step is the proposal.

Times are changing, people. That whole “down on one knee with a ring” claptrap is passé now. Get with the times! Want to fit in with the young and hip, you square? Consider these new proposal traditions that will totally set you up to score. (Let’s face it. You get married for the honeymoon and that’s it.)

The new standard proposal is not set in some smaltzy restaurant with violins and that garbage. No, these days the most appropriate backdrop for the first day of the rest of your life is the ballpark. The Jumbo-tron! Big-league, baby! Nothing says “I wanna love you forever” like proposing to your sweetie while thousands of people watch her on a huge screen. She’s not wearing makeup and she has on that sort of crummy windbreaker she keeps meaning to replace but she wore anyway because nothing exciting ever happens at a Mets game anyway? Perfect! It’s romantic and she’ll love it and you can probably get a free hotdog or something if she says yes.

Too tame for you? Want something that really shows how great a guy you are? Women love commitment. Everyone knows that. Ever since a caveman cracked a woman in the skull with a rock and took her back to his cave and then, the next day, cracked that ­same woman with that same rock, men have known commitment is a big deal. Does a little circle of metal really show you’re commited? Heck no! It shows you have enough money to buy a briquette that got compressed by pressure and crystallized differently. No no, soon-to-be groom, take a page from your high-school playbook and call shotgun. Calling shotgun on your way to a car shows that you are committed enough to this drive that you want to ride as the passenger. So what better way to tell a woman you want her to be a passenger in your tricked-out lowrider to your golden years than a shotgun wedding? Truly there is nothing more wonderful than the sounds of an apparently non-forward thinking father-to-be shouting “oh my God you’re what? What? Mine? What?! Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod your dad is going to kill me!”

But still, these matters of proposing to that special someone are not good enough for me. Laugh at my arrogance if you must, but the fact is I want a wedding proposal that is full of risk, action, drama, and romance. Like an episode of “Cops” with commercials for “Desperate Housewives.” Women, as mentioned, like commitment. They also like self-confidence and a man who makes plans. Not dinner plans. Life plans. A lot of wedding-stress comes from the actual planning of the wedding. Do not let that fall on my darling’s shoulders! I will plan it. I will plan everything. You know how much people love surprise parties, right? Imagine a surprise wedding! Naturally I can’t invite any of her friends since they’d probably blow it. Her family is out too, unless she has a sister with a taste for hijinks. I’ll pick her up, tell her to dress nice because we’re going someplace fancy like Red Lobster or Medieval Times, and then holy crap we’re at the church! (Unless she wants a non-religious ceremony, but then again I can’t really ask her so yeah, the church.) Even now my heart flutters with thoughts of her voice crying out with delight:

“What the hell? What is this? A what?! Are you insane? Get away from me! No! Get away! This is the worst third date ever!”

            When I go out to a bar, what with the music and the dancing and all, I’m well aware of the fact I have no idea what I’m doing. Not in a black-out what-did-I-do-last-night drunk kind of a way, just in a total social ineptitude sense. Sometimes I entertain the possibility that maybe I do not know a lot about these things.

Last night I went out to just such a bar where my total lack of social grace and confidence could run free. We’d been there for maybe an hour or so when I notice a girl from across the bar (cliché!) looking at me. When we made eye contact she pointed at her eyes with her index and middle fingers and then pointed at me. I had to mentally and consciously prevent myself from looking around before I did the traditional “point at your own chest and mouth ‘me?’” maneuver. She responded to my crazy smooth only-mouthed-me bit by doing the eye pointing bit again. So I did it back. So… she did it back. This continued for a longer time than might be acceptable. Finally I squeeze my way around the bachelorette party she was a part of (if the woman in the veil wasn’t telling sign, the straws shaped like penises were) and started a conversation. I told her I had no idea what the hand gesture meant. (A lie, we all saw Meet the Parents) She said it meant she had her eye on me. Indeed? She could not tell me if this was good (romantic, in my mind) or bad (an impending street fight perhaps) even when pressed. We talked about important and deep things. Like the penis straws. Then after a while we wandered apart. Later when my wanderings brought us back together we began to talk again.

I can’t remember why, exactly, but another member of the party was brought in to the conversation. This new girl begins to tell me what a catch my new friend is. Why is that, I asked. I was treated to a list of fairly generic sounding traits like “awesome” and “smart” and some other adjectives I couldn’t hear over the band’s cover of “Take Me Out.” Then she said something about “two years too late.” Late for what?

For the last two years my new friend has been in a relationship with a doctor. Pardon me? True story! I understand that I am a majestic figure of a man and it’s only natural that one might watch me as I wander the bar, but do not telegraph this point to me unless you have a good reason! So we continued to talk and then the bride to be descended upon me. She was a nice enough person, for all her boisterous drunken enthusiasm. She pointed out all the accoutrements of the bachelorette- the veil, the penis straw, the white tank top with “bride to be” picked out across the chest in rhinestones. Then she asked me if I was single. Now, idiot though I may be, I suspected that this woman might have had a boyfriend. I don’t know why, something I just couldn’t put my finger on. I told her I didn’t and she began listing off reasons I should and she couldn’t believe I didn’t. Another list of somewhat generic terms came forth. “Tall,” “funny,” “nice,” “cute.” Erm, thank you? I shall remember this information? Good luck on your wedding?

And so, after that, the bride to be and her bridesmaids drifted out of the bar. But I like to think that I will forever be a part of that wonderful quilted tapestry of memory. Specifically the little square of fabric that says “remember that guy who hit on Jackie at the bachelorette party? Haha hilarious!”

I have never been particularly great with the fairer sex. “But JD,” I hear you cry, “you are so handsome and charming and witty to boot!” Thank you. That is so kind of you to say. You are a good person. “True,” I reply, “I am all these things and more, but how can I showcase my humor and linguistic grace if I never actually start a conversation?”

The fact of the matter is that I’m a bit shy and nervous about these things. I’ll go out with a friend or two, cruise the bars, have a few beers or what-have-you, but I don’t talk to strangers. (This is good advice, actually. They should teach that to kids.) I’ve never actually done the singles scene outside of college. So what the hell do I do? It is a social scene for which I have little frame of reference. The first night out I watched people. Since I’m over six and a half feet tall, I can easily look down on a somewhat crowded bar and observe. Some guys would simply go up and introduce themselves, hand outstretched. They looked a bit like used car salesmen. Still others would just go up and begin dancing with the girl of his choice sans her consent. I do not approve of launching myself headlong into someone else’s personal space, so this is not the route for me.

Furthermore, once I’m in the conversation, things are going well, good times all around, I have no clue how to segue into the “well how about you give me your number and I’ll give you a call sometime.” Aside from the fact that a lot of people have told me “no one really picks people up in bars, not for real relationships” it IS (and I know I run the risk of sounding like a misogynist but here I go anyway) almost like a score. A touchdown, if you will. Katie, my comrade in arms for these skirmishes in the battle of the sexes, and I have a running game to see who can get more numbers on these bar outings. The score is lame to depressing in the first quarter. She has home field advantage, though. She’s a girl. To change metaphor-gears into something a bit more historical, she’s a gatherer, she’s supposed to gather. As the big hairy man, it is my task to stalk the plains and hunt.

Hunt for numbers? Yes indeed! My pride is on the line now that there’s a running challenge. So be it, then, Katie, bring your A-game. Tonight is round three. The score is currently a very 1960’s luv-all, but I have a fresh batch of confidence and some beer money. Game on!