Not A Chance

It will never work. Trust me. I see your coy stare, your seductive smile, your winking eyes, and your steeled resolve to catch my attention. Believe me, I see it. I see you. But it'll never happen. trust me. There's not a chance in hell that we'd work out.

Why, you ask? Well, how much time have you got?

See, here's the thing: I overthink. Badly. For example, I see us going on a first date: we laugh, we talk, we connect, we make googly-eyes at each other, and we kiss goodnight. With a stomach full of butterflies and loins licked in flames, our relationship progresses into the heady first months. By day 60, however, like clockwork, uncertainty creeps in.

The way you dress, the way you click your teeth as you watch TV... your tiny little habits begin to get on my nerves. It is usually at the 90-day mark that these irritating nuances get on my last nerve and I swiftly end things with you. But if we're lucky-- or not, whatever-- I'll have managed to convince myself that this turn of events in naught but a minor bump in the road of our enduring love, and I'll turn a blind eye to your overall oddities.

So let's say I indulge in said denial: we date a few more months, we meet the folks, we vacation with the family, we spend the Holidays with your extended family, I laugh, I wear that ugly-ass Bedazzled snowman sweater your Nana Marjorie knitted for me, I drink your Uncle Stu's bitter wassail, you smile and act gracious when you unwrap yet another pair of socks, and I slowly but surely stifle my inner panic at the thought that someone else is on the road to knowing me as well as I know myself. At least, long enough to tell you I love you come New Year's.

Imagine that the dual delusion lasts long enough for me to accept your marriage proposal. Now fast-forward through the hell and stress of wedding planning, the wedding day, and the shattered expectations of the honeymoon. It's a few years later, we're waist-deep in debt because of the mortgage, and we have a serious argument every once in a while. We've got a cat and a dog, and to accompany the pets, we have tiffs over who cleaned up after which animal last time.

Amidst the chaos of the early years, somebody (I'm not sure whom) hits upon the bright idea of having a child to bring us closer together. So it's a few years after the excitement of telling everyone twice, the shock of the births, the exhaustion of the first few months of each child's life, the horror of potty-training twice over, and the depression over the fact that to friends and relatives, outside of the kids, I smell of Cheerios and sour milk, and I simply don't matter to my once- closest allies as much as I used to.

Faced with looming mid-life and a crushing sense of unaccomplished dreams, we both anticipate our forties with increasing dread. The kids are difficult to keep in line, our childless and single friends shun us because of our familial preoccupation, and we start to resent each other more and more. You blame the children for coming between us, and I blame you for not doing your share at home. I begin to feel unsexy and bitter, and as you become more distant, your eyes start wandering.

You start spending more time at work and playing golf because of the tumultuous home life (the blame for which you rest squarely on my already-burdened maternal shoulders), and I grow more and more suspicious of where and with whom you spend the bulk of your time. Tensions continue to build and build, and by our 10th anniversary, we're barely speaking to each other.

Feeling that we've lost touch, the sentiments that go unsaid between us build up a wall of hostility and fragile emotion so very high that it takes a divorce decree-- dangling overhead for months before like the fabled Sword of Damocles-- for it to come tumbling down.

At the tail end of yet another relationship, what do we have? 2 ungrateful kids who will eventually blame us for both their failed adult relationships and the money they spend on therapy sessions later in life. A house fraught with painful memories that only a title transfer will suppress, and an overall sense of failure at the societal expectations dangling just out of our reach.

So really, what's it all worth for us to be in love and be together, knowing full well just how high the odds are stacked against us? What's the point of going through the hoopla knowing it will amount to nothing in the end?

We're better off alone. Or maybe it's just me. Pessimistic? Me? Pffft... not even.