Few events excite me more than Meatloaf Friday at this hofbrau I go to, but chief among them is the single biggest sporting event in the world–the World Cup.
I get giddy thinking about my favorite teams competing against the best of the best, anticipating the energy of a good sports bar or pub as everyone celebrates my team’s wins, and imagining the millions of people throughout the world who are cheering with me, live, at this instant, for my favorite players’ successes.
So, when I realized Cottage Week was going to overlap with the World Cup, I knew I’d have to bring Jayne into the soccer fold (because it’s important to do things together) and hope she enjoys it as much as I do (or at least tolerates me as I react emotionally to every scrape and penalty).
We began with Italy vs. England.
In which Jayne had this to say about the English goalie: “He looks like a peach crayon.”
Anyone in a lady bromance knows this to be true: your best friend also doubles as your platonic significant other. There are date nights involving romantic dinners in dimly-lit restaurants and moonlit strolls (for me and T, we try to make this happen on as many Sunday nights as we can possibly schedule); you know to leave the ice out of her glass of water because she has sensitive teeth, and she knows that at any given moment you are liable to make a vaguely musical sound for no reason whatsoever; wherever you go, you know each other’s usual drink orders and can usually predict with deadly accuracy what the other will order off the menu; very frequently, your mutual friends will tell you that you have the same speech mannerisms and opinions on a wide range of topics, even one as insignificant as Lena Dunham’s perpetual nakedness on Girls.
Eventually, even your actual significant other becomes threatened upon realizing that the date suggestions they reject are the ones your best friend will happily take you up on, and that the restaurant you love that they can’t stand is the one your boo frequently orders take out from and personally delivers to your house for the hell of it. The pure romance in the non-romance becomes so palpable that it gets to a point where people start to joke, “Why don’t you guys just get married?”…and then you both actually begin to entertain the kind of cluster-fuck of a wedding that would be.
Last night during our Sunday walk and in between heavy rounds of maniacal laughter, T and I did this very thing, We already celebrate a frienniversary, after all; it was only a matter of time before we started jokingly imagining a more permanent union with gleeful curiosity. What follows is an accurate account of how we picture giving our hypothetical “I do’s.”
It will be a schizophrenic mess.
T is very classic: white dress, long veil, round diamond in a solitaire setting. I’m very…not: leather jacket, lace-up boots, not a ring but a tattoo. She wants a good-sized celebration; I want as few people as humanly possible because I’m convinced the more people there are, the more likely it is that someone will fuck with my shit. She is Jewish, and I’m a very very very very lapsed Catholic who just believes we’re all connected and wants people to be kind, empathetic, and to eat a lot of donuts while we’re all here. Needless to say, our two aesthetics are pretty much in a Romeo and Juliet type of situation, except ain’t no one gonna die over this one. I happen to think combining the two would be kind of hilarious, seeing as how what’s more than likely to happen is no one will have a clue where the hell they are and what the hell is happening. I quite like chaos. (Probably why I suspect I’d make quite the warlord…)
Jayne and I have a near-weekly dining date when we discuss future writing projects, share the happenings in our lives, and complain about everything that pisses us off in this world (and not in that order). It turns out we basically have the same favorite foods and overdeveloped love of eating, which pretty much makes Jayne my favorite dining companion. Our mantra is “Judge not, lest ye be judged” (not in the way this phrase is actually intended, when taken in context, but in the way that everyone misinterprets it, which is to mean, “Don’t judge me, bro!”). Every meal out with my companion in lady bromancing is a hoot (and sometimes also a half) because we make every meal out feel like an occasion, like this:
Determine the desired mealtime
Because we get our life advice from fictional characters, our preferred nomenclature for meals follows the Merry and Pippin dining system: breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper.
Generally, this means one of us will get a text from the other that goes something like this: Continue Reading…
T and I have reached many milestones in our lady bromance: first sleepovers, first boo-cations, first weepy 3 AM phone calls in which we morbidly and uselessly demand answers from a cruel and mysterious world (what, I’m not cynical or misanthropic – what gave you that idea?), first romantic instances of swiping bites of food from each other’s plates, and first introductions to the family (actually, this June during our fourth annual writing retreat I’m scheduled to have a real, sit-down dinner with just T and her parentals – which means her brother will be the final Everest in her immediate family tree whom I have yet to conquer. *cue music of extreme foreboding* CHARM THEM I MUST!). We have braved skinheads (T will tell you about this later), shared a cuddle under an umbrella in the rain, and have now taken to referring to ourselves in the first-person plural (“Are we hungry?”). And yet, with all the landmarks we’ve hit and the Kodak moments we’ve shared (is that a completely dated reference now?), I still have yet to do one final thing as a declaration of pure, undying love and devotion: The Boo Serenade.