At some point in your late 20s, everyone you have ever met will get married over the course of a single week. I wrote that sentence assuming you were younger than I am, so if you're older, let me rephrase: Hey, remember that one week in your late 20s when everyone you knew got married? What the hell? Did they plan this out during secret meetings? Were you invited to the meetings but forgot about them, because of how crushingly disorganized you are?
Now, I know what you're thinking, were thinking, or will eventually think*: "The fact that I'm the only one in my social circle not getting married surely means that I am a broken, fundamentally unlovable sorrow-goblin, and I will spend the rest of my life drinking sadness-beers in the corner of a dive bar, staring lustfully at the unattainably young and fit people living romantically fulfilling lives around me." But that's not true: There are a lot of good things about being the only single person you ever interact with. For example ...
*I hope this doesn't freak you out.
5 You Are The Most Interesting Person At Every Party
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So you find yourself at a party (see? You still go to parties. There are plenty of reasons to live) at your married friends' house, waiting for everyone else to arrive because you showed up early because you have nothing going on. Your friend Sandy is feeding her baby, while her husband Randy is excited to explain cars to you. When guests start to trickle in, they do so in pairs: Bill and Jill, Barney and Arnie, Chris and Kris, and SaraCraig, old co-workers of yours whose bodies were fused together when you messed with some forces you didn't understand and should really have left alone at the Fitzsimmons Plant. When they start chatting, it's clear they all have shared, married couple experiences:
"We have so many stresses associated with being homeowners," Jill says to Chris.
"We created a human life and are now responsible for its fate," Randy says to Arnie.
"Just between you and me, our relationship hasn't been as strong since our torsos were melted into one torso and our daily lives came under a cruel shroud of constant, unfathomable agony. We share a nervous system and now have twice as many pain receptors as a normal human being, and each one screams for death," the lower half of SaraCraig says to Barney.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about our personal stuff at parties," the upper half says, in what is surely intended to be a whisper but actually comes out as a strained howl.
"We share a mind. I have lost the ability to distinguish my own consciousness from yours. Only now have I learned that the the most valuable possession is a secret, for that is something I can never again enjoy," the lower half replies.
"Don't I know it, brother," Arnie says, clinking his beer against SaraCraig's.
"We exist outside the confines of space and time. We remember all before it happens. We remember our own death." This time, both halves speak with one voice.
Boring, right? But, luckily, you have an interesting story to share:
"Last night, I watched A Nightmare On Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors in my underwear," you say fondly. "Had a couple beers too. But not so many that it's a sign of a substance-abuse problem."
Everyone stares. Barney puts his hand on your shoulder.
"Your life is fascinating," he says.
Boom. Party: saved.
4There's Plenty Of Room In Your Empty Apartment
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So one night you have a party, inviting all your married friends over, and they all show up because they love you. Truly, your friends are a great reason to stop thinking about that loaded .22 pistol you keep wrapped in a sock above your coats in the hall closet. After you all watch A Nightmare On Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors, because no one has been able to stop thinking about it since you brought it up that one time, your friends leave, two by two, and you're left alone again.
"Bye, everybody," you say, but your voice echoes through your empty apartment, because they've been gone for 40 minutes and you've just been standing there, staring at your closed front door. You gather up the empty beer bottles and put them in the recycling bin. You mop up the thick, red and brown fluids left by SaraCraig. You pick up the empty chip bowl from your coffee table and set it in the sink. You turn on the water and watch the bowl fill up. The crumbs float to the edge of the bowl, spilling over and vanishing down the drain. You grab a sponge and gently wipe away the residual oils. You set the bowl on a dishrag, leaning it against a glass so that it dries by morning. Then you return to your couch. You notice an empty beer bottle by the television that you didn't notice at first. You stare at it, forgetting to sit back down. There's a quarter-inch of warm beer still in the bottom of the bottle. You can't recall who was drinking that beer, but there's a faint memory of a lipstick stain across the bottle's mouth.
Your butt remains perched above your furniture, any hope of sinking into the soft foam long forgotten.
In the distance, a dog barks.