After switching jobs, moving from Rocky Mount to Durham,  getting married, and nine months of driving all over eastern North Carolina in the hopes to improve the state of education in our rural-most counties, I’m obviously older and wiser and ready to share my deep perspective once again. Okay, so maybe not much wiser because I’m still imbibing CookOut milkshakes on a regular basis regardless of the bodily harm they may cause me; but the older part stands true. I’m married.  And being married just seems so…so old.

I’ve only been married for a week and two days now, but I’m noticing that I’m wrinkling and developing age spots. Just two weeks ago, I would look at a married couple, and can now admit,  I thought, wow, they must be much older than me–they’re married. They must enjoy board games on a regular basis, cook every night (and probably rotate through three standard meals), have a weekly date night, and, of course, all of their friends must be married. They probably go to dinner parties with other married couples where the women are friends with one other and the men are dragged along as pets.  The women probably drink wine and gossip about husbands and preschools, and the men are forced to sit together and watch sports and wait until their wives give the signal, at a much later hour than the men would like, that they can return to their married place of residence. And now I’m realizing that I implicitly thought, phew, not me. I am not married because I am young and much too cool to be married. Much too cool. I mean, I dance in the car to Hannah Montana and shop at Urban Outfitters. How much cooler and unmarried can you get?

And so now,  I’m married. And terrified because I’m just realizing that this potentially means I will instantly erupt into an old and boring person wearing only sweater sets and interested in preschool.  On our honeymoon last Thursday, I turned to Pat as we sat on the beach at Fripp Island for our honeymoon and asked if he  felt–different. You know, married.

Pat looked at me, with his hat turned backwards and T.I. on his iPod (which was helping me to feel un-old and married), and said, well no, he didn’t feel different. And that’s thing, I don’t feel any different either. And so now I’m having this giant revelation that maybe being married doesn’t automatically make you old and boring. Or maybe it does and I’m just in denial.

On our honeymoon, we did spend much of our afternoons and evenings playing Scattergories. We cooked dinner two nights and packed lunches everyday for the beach.  While I am trying to classify this as typical beach behavior, and not just playing games and packing lunches because we’re married, it does seem rather a bit of foreshadowing and as I’m thinking of it now, quite ironic that it’s only been a week and a few days and my life is quickly turning to into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Now, just to make sure this isn’t a one-sided view of the past week, I will say that Pat and I may have a matching set of the most immature senses of humor of all married couples I know…or maybe all married couples secretly act like this, but hide it well. Being married has not made us stop laughing at incredibly crude humor, much to my mother’s dismay. But, you know, I figure it seems I’m aging quickly and something needs to keep me young.

By next week, I’ll probably have gray hair, only shop at Talbots, suddenly start cooking a variation of chicken breasts every night because I’ll try to be thrifty and save money by buying them in bulk at Costco, and I’m just not sure I’m ready for these life changes. I want to keep  going out on Tuesdays and Thursdays and listening to Hannah Montana and wearing Urban Outfitters.  I want to keep on laughing at crude humor and listening to T.I. and imagining, with quite an elaborate imagination, how hip I am. (I, am, hip of course.) So, here’s to married life. To playing Scattergories, packing lunches, and listening to Hannah Montana.


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