THAT Georgian runaway bride isn’t the only one having second thoughts in May.
There are plenty of now-or-soon-to-be singles in Hoboken who are armed with their running shoes as well…
Ah, May. Home of Cinco de Mayo, multiple beach house happy hours, and, of course, the unofficial start of summer otherwise known as Memorial Day weekend.
The latter is a symbol of long-term planning, whether that itinerary calls for a jaunt through Europe, a camping trip in the Berkshires, or–from what I’ve heard–the sometimes-financially gaudy purchase of a share in a co-ed beach house anywhere off of Exit 98 to 63…
Unlike fall, winter and spring (or whatever they call it in the still-too-cool tri-state area), temptation for those with the very best intentions for maintaining a long-term relationship rears its beautiful head. For those off you reading this column that chose yet another season of fun and frivolity at the Jersey shore and own that pesky conundrum in the form of a significant other, decision time of whether IT is working or not manifested itself the moment you got an email from one of those bothersome people who run beach houses…
You know, the email disguised as blasphemy that asked if you were coming back into the fold or not.
The options are few:
1) You can join a predominantly singles house along with Mr. or Mrs. Right (now).
2) You can stay home with Mr. or Mrs. Right and resent him/her for keeping you in this sweaty, people-free ghost town on summer weekends (but at least you’ll have each other).
3) You can kick the relationship to the curb because you feel this puppy will never be housebroken the way you desire but haven’t been motivated enough to go through the hassle of ending it.
A fork in the road comes in many forms, and for those living in the Mile Square, this ride down Decision Drive has a fork in it the size of the one in the Yankees season.
The sound of 80s punk permeates the air:
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble…
But if stay it will be double…
It all seems shallow on the surface. If two people have what only Tom Cruise and the chick from Dawson’s Creek so publicly enjoy, then why let something as insignificant as a warm season ruin what was built during all of those cold nights of winter? If someone is good enough to go to dinner with on a dead Saturday night in January or is worthy of making it an Apprentice night with in March, then why can’t that same person suffice in June, July and August?
Answer: Note the choice of the words “good enough” in the previous sentence.
It’s like driving down the road with Phil Collins on the radio.
Do you like Phil Collins?
Well sure, who doesn’t like an oldie like Separate Lives every decade or so?
Still, as you listen to the duo stating you have no right…to ask me how I feel, you’re not quite satisfied. In an effort to find something better, you speed-search around the dial, but all that can be found are commercials, talk stations, Lindsay Lohan, and John Mayer.
Same goes for the average wintertime romance, except the commercials represent those people you would skip over if humans could be TIVOed, the talk stations are those you would rather ignore. For the men, Lindsay Lohan is the amply-framed sorority chick that always found a way to get to the fraternity house at 3:00 AM (too obtainable), while the ladies see John Mayer as the guy who always has a girlfriend (unobtainable).
The choices on the radio, like relationship choices in the winter, are slim.
So with options like that, you turn back to Phil.
Because he’s safe.
But you also know that the words “summer” and “safe” rarely appear in the same sentence in a number of contexts. The thought of taking a cooking class together or spending a Saturday afternoon at IKEA horrifies you.
But your bed partner didn’t get the memo. He or she thinks the status quo is fine, that life or something like it will continue as it had through Christmas, Valentine’s Day and St. Patty’s.
A second email from the shore house coordinator comes into your mailbox.
Like a bar at 3:00 AM, the coordinator tells you its last call. As Clooney said in Ocean’s 11, you’re either in or you’re out.
Ultimatums disguised as debates are never fun.
“I think we should take some time off,” you tell your cold weather non-platonic friend.
The news hits them like one of those people who thought they won the $100,000 Daily News Scratch n Match Game, only to be told the ticket was invalid. There were such high hopes and big plans for the future, only to watch those dreams taken away with a cold declaration from the power that be.
“I thought everything was okay,” is the common response to the time-off statement.
“I just need a little space to discover myself,” is the almost-automatic response.
If you remember anything about this column, sponge this: Whenever an alleged significant other offers this excuse in the name of a better long-term solution to an already flat-as-two-week-old-Pepsi-without-a-cap, save yourself something called dignity and say, “Thanks but no thanks.” Otherwise, the stench of hope will linger like a fart in an elevator to nowhere.
Because while you’re waiting for that gal or guy to discover his or herself, Your Ex(plorer) is out to sea…
No, check that…
The Explorer is at Club Med (otherwise known as Edgar’s or the Marlin at the beach) looking to improve the wind beneath the sails.
For those experiencing this first hand, this kind of written candor isn’t fun, but…
You want the truth?
I think I’m entitled…
Do you want the truth?
You can’t handle the truth!
The future-ex-husband of the runaway bride has told about 100 cable news channels that he’ll take back his confused future-ex-wife, despite her cutting her hair, buying a one-way ticket to America’s Playground, and leaving the ring on the bed.
They must not have the whole beach house option in Georgia…
One more reason to appreciate the priceless entertainment of spring and summer drama in the Garden State…