Alright, so even though 95% of my friends pulled some typical Jew-trickery and managed to postpone the real world for at least another year, some of us are actually graduating in May and moving on with our lives. So naturally, I’ve been thinking a lot about the future and what that entails for the Salvuchasaurus and the rest of the Albermarle All-Stars.
My initial reaction: Holy shit, I need to find my future wife while I’m still young. I’m literally freaking out about this right now. I feel like Rachel Zoe during awards season. Just constantly stressed out and ready to kill somebody. Like, even now it’s hard enough for me to trick girls into hooking up with me, and that’s with my moneymaker abs. What the hell am I gonna do when my job starts and I’m working 800 hours a week and pouring milk into my General Gao’s and calling it breakfast? Besides, do I really want to enter that whole “Early 20’s/Young Professional” dating scene?” Just seems like a bunch of hullabaloo to me. Because as you know, I’m a simple man with a simple ideas. I don’t like all the complicated rules that go along with dating.
For the past 4 years, I’ve been operating under one rule and one rule only: As long as you treat girls like a Meal Plan, you won’t find yourself in any messy situations. (The Mean Plan Rule is easy: You know how your meal plan carries over from fall-semester to spring-semester? But at the end of the academic year you lose everything and have to start over next September? Well, girls are the same way. At the end of the year, you have to cut your losses. Because if you’re hooking up with a girl at the end of junior year, allow an entire summer pass, and then start things back up again during senior year, you’re basically screwed. Sparks start flying all over the place. Feelings come creeping in. It’s a fucking disaster. One minute you’re playing ruit with all your boys, and the next thing you know you’re spending your entire weekend cuddling and watching “He’s Just Not That into You.”). But now I don’t know what to do because I’m trying to find Ms. Right and apparently Meal Plan rules don’t go hand-in-hand with relationships.
My second reaction: I think to myself, you know what would be hilarious? A blog about all my friends and where they are in about 6 or 7 years. Mitch and Sarah, you guys are up first. You can spare me the song and dance about how you want your own individual posts. The last time you guys weren’t together, I didn’t even have a Facebook. That’s long as shit. Besides, if the Grammy people are allowed to give Best New Artist to Esmerelda Spalding or whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is over Justin Bieber, then I’m allowed to do this.
2018:
Mitch and I have been living together in Boston for a few years now, just tearing up the accounting world like we’ve always been destined to. My alarm clock usually goes off at 6:00 am because I like to take a long shower in order to wake myself up. Unfortunately, after 15 minutes in the shower, I’m literally standing in an ocean because Sarah won’t clean her hair out of the fucking drain. I mean seriously, you’ve been living here rent-free for like 2 years now. Would it kill you to un-clog it every once in a while?
Anyway, after a quick breakfast, Mitch and I hop on the T and head to the office. We’re pretty excited because we just signed a new client: Dyer Corp., which secretly is about to take over the world. Honestly, it’s like the next Google. The partners in our office seem more pleased with this client than the last one we brought in: Jesse’s Bike Rentals, which had, let’s just say, a very laissez-faire policy on paying its auditing fee.
I could bore you with all the details of what Mitch and I do all day long, but I’d probably fall asleep just trying to describe it. For simplicity’s sake, we sit at our desks changing numbers around until the assets match the liabilities, and then we go home. I usually try to convince Mitch to go to a bar with me after work, but he always insists he’s too tired. It’s cool, though. I had a girl once and she ran my life, too.
As soon as we get home, Sarah immediately begins to tell us about her day, which obviously makes me feel terrible about myself. “Oh, well first I did some research in the lab, which will help like 1 million people. Then they needed someone to fill-in in surgical, so I did that for the rest of the afternoon. And since I finished early, I figured I’d stop by Harvard on my way home and get started on my 8th degree.” Relax chica. I went on 4 service trips in college. I’ve paid my debt to society. Now let me watch this Warriors-Clippers game in peace.
But wait…I just remembered I need to start being nicer to Sarah since we’re getting married in T-minus 14 months.
In order to explain myself, let me take you back to Bigelow Middle School for a minute. In 7th grade, Sarah and I are sitting in Ms. Moore’s art class talking about Friends like we usually do. We eventually start talking about the episode where everyone has a backup. You know, if you’re not married by a certain age, then you get married to one of your friends so you can play the game of life together. Well, being the forward-thinking girl that she is, Sarah asks me to be her backup, and I agree. (Little known fact: this was actually a very difficult decision for me. After successfully asking Sarah to the first dance in 6th grade, things just kinda fizzled from there. If it didn’t work out in the future, I wasn’t sure if I could handle opening up Pandora’s box of emotions again).
Anyway, we then proceeded to iron out all the details. Sarah spent the next 45 minutes going through magazines and making a collage with pictures of all the furniture she wanted in our house (I wouldn’t be surprised if this was in The Burn Book). And most importantly, we agreed upon age 30 as our deadline.
I hope you can see where I’m going with this, because I’m almost about to turn 29, and Mitch still hasn’t popped the question. I mean, we could talk for days about true love and soul mates, blah, blah, blah. Get off your high horse. People make these kinds of deals for a reason. In the winter of 2019, you’re getting an invitation to Sarah’s wedding. And if I’m the lucky groom-to-be, don’t think for one second I’m not asking Mitch to be my best man and forcing him stand up at the alter with us.
