I'm Thinking About Getting Married. But Maybe Not, Here's Why

I'm Thinking About Getting Married. But Maybe Not, Here's Why

Let's preface this story with some relevant facts:

Me: 32
Girlfriend: 32
Relationship length: 1 year, 2 months
Hook-up relationship length: 2 years-ish
Friendship: 15 years (Bud Light stat of the night)

One woman for the rest of eternity? That’s cra—
Actually that part’s no sweat. If she’s worth it, eff it — I’ll take the plunge. And… I just might, but here’s the thing...


I spent some time on Tinder in my twenties and had very little success. Like, 0 percent, minus the weird-looking ones. Anyways, I used it. And my married friends were unequivocally fascinated by the thing. I’d joke around with married friends about it, still do, and the solidarity of responses was ominous. Every, time, it’s the same response — man, if Tinder was a thing when I was single, I’d still be single bro. Up top! I’m well aware of my Tinder results, but what if the next technological dating advance makes dating even MORE fun and MORE accessible?!? What if we’re all allowed to buy robot models-as-wives for $2,000 in a couple years? You can’t deny the possibility. More frightening — what if she can buy a hunky robot pool boy for the same price?! She makes more than me! I’ll be on the wrong side of a divorce for certain.


Yes, we all know about the ~50% divorce rate (http://www.divorce.usu.edu/files/uploads/Lesson3.pdf). It’s become cliché, but it’s too easy to be cynical about those numbers. But it’s not that I’m skeptical about our love or whatever, I’m skeptical about ANY institution with a 50-percent success rate. If someone told me “hey buy this house there’s a 50-percent chance you won’t be completely and utterly devastated by things not working out!,” I’d laugh so hard in their face my throat would itch. Of course, you can’t think about the stats. You can’t mention them to her, because unromantic. So the numbers fester inside you. Every argument, every flirty moment with that cute coworker, the stats will chizzle away at you. As a boyfriend, there are no numbers hovering over my shoulder, teasing me, taunting me. Numbers=pressure. I’m not romantic about pressure.

David Bowie, remind us of what pressure does…

“Pressure pushing down on me / Pressing down on you, no man ask for / Under pressure that burns a building down / Splits a family in two / Puts people on streets…”
Oh dear god.


There’s literally something happening every weekend of the year. January? Sorry, NFL playoffs and the freaking Super Bowl. February? Nope, NBA trade deadline. March? You kidding me? April is NBA playoffs and my fantasy baseball draft so please don’t talk to me. May? More NBA playoffs, more baseball, Kentucky Derby, major boxing bouts (Mayweather loves the last weekend in May). June? NBA FINALS, lady! July? NBA free agency and the dog days of summer. August? Ok we could probably make August work- wait, nope, Olympics. September-December is spoken for thanks to fantasy football — this is hopeless.


I’ve accomplished plenty in my career, and I see an adult-looking person in the mirror. But nothing inside me tells me I’m an adult. Instinctively I would prefer doing the same shit I was doing when I was 23. I still want to avoid real work (hence me writing things at you). I want to drink beer most nights of the week. I want to headbang and mosh and hip-hop around at concerts Tuesday through Sunday (never could do the Monday concert with gusto). Marriage might not require the death of those activities, but I have major concerns.