This Is My Life

Last night it was my pleasure to see a very lovely wedding with Mass, which filled me with waves of Catholic guilt a non-practicing should ever have to feel, and a deep sense of relief that there is that non practicing whatnot: There was about 128 mentions of the bride and grooms children, need for children, intent for children, and Catholic responsibility to give children. Honestly, there may not have actually been 128 mentions... but there were definitely at least 12.

Babies, Babies, Babies.

Interesting side-note... when all was said and done, the newlyweds were riding back to the reception with us because my boyfriend has a 2010 Hummer and until someone gets a 2011 Hummer, he's got the most MTV Pimp My (Event Here) car in town. Which is funny, but not the side note. The side note is this: I was talking to the bride and said something about cranking out those babies and was she nervous about all the talk about it, and she stared at me blankly and said she hadn't noticed. But then, she's a regular church goer and I'm a single mother: We may have different triggers.

After this it was my lovely pleasure to sit at the not dancing table with the not present boyfriend (not like he's not there for me or something like that, I mean physically: He doesn't like to be around me when we're out because he has too many social responsibilities. I assure you, that marriage would never have lasted if he had brought me a cup of coffee or had a piece of cake with me or something-- whew. At least one of us was thinking. Understand, I am rolling my eyes somewhat severely here, not in an "I should break up with him" kind of a way, but in a "most girls" would break up with him kind of way), drinking enormous amounts of coffee with his best friend who had unofficially become my plus one by making conversation with me and pouring me iced tea, and discussing the eventual joys of pregnancy (AFTER said baby gets all up out of the uterus) with a very close preggie friend of the not present boyfriend who I find to be quite a joy (disclaimer, we were discussing it strictly for her, I am not pregnant, I realize that may have read that way... whew).

And this sounds like a normal night in the life of a normal if not slightly dysfunctional unmarried couple in the Midwest. Less so, is that we had to leave the reception no later than 10:30... Because we were going to be on time for the scheduled private evening with WWF Wrestling champion Hacksaw Jim Duggan.

That's right: My boyfriend bought a wrestler.

Now in fairness, he didn't singularly buy this human being for the evening, someone else chipped in as well. The point is not, however, who paid with him: The point is, on a Saturday night I was in the company of a bought living person who is extremely famous in the wrestling scene.

And, he was actually a very nice man, if not a little excessively trashy. He did know a lot of euphemisms for the act of performing fellatio and how to work them into completely unrelated conversations, and he absolutely without a doubt managed to tell my boyfriend in several ways that he would like to see his (very attractive) sister and (well, I'm very attractive, it's true) girlfriend exchanging rather adult natured pleasantries. Which my boyfriend beamed at because I guess what normally requires threatening words and perhaps a threat to fight is quite less offensive when uttered by a famous douche bag in a bar.

Fair enough.

Eventually a couple of my superbest girlfriends came out, one had her cleavage signed, by boyfriend maybe had way too much to drink, and the night was over. The entire next day I wandered around thinking to myself in a sleepy haze... "This is my life."

My boyfriend buys wrestlers, I'm going to be married at an excessively old age, and the Catholic church will want babies from me that I don't want to give them. My cosmic Internet soulmate gets her breasts signed by celebrities she's not familiar with because it's good blog fodder and she's fucking fabulous in ways I don't know how to explain, my daughter will be home tomorrow and I can't tell her about parts of my week while she was away, and my desktop has a picture of me clutching saucily at a middle aged man with long hair, a beer gut, and the undying affection of my deeply Indian boyfriend who more than once began a chant of "USA" in one of the less cultural bars in our town on Saturday because really, he's the most all American boy you'll ever meet and loves wrestlers, their catch phrases, and I secretly think the baffled looks of some clueless bar guests for which the evening must have looked even more surreal than it did to me in the morning.

This is my life.