According to my dad, there’s some comedian who does a bit about “married people stories.” They’re not funny. They’re boring as hell, actually. They entail things like, “We were having a barbecue with the Joneses but we ran out of hamburgers so we had salmon burgers instead!”
Did you miss the punchline? Yes? Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret: there was none. It was a lame story.
Just like all the stories I found myself telling on the beach the day after we tied the knot:
“I bought this really fancy cardstock for our wedding programs. We weren’t even going to do programs but we wanted to give the non-Quakers a bit of a clue about what was going on. But I couldn’t get them to print. So PIC took them to Staples and even they couldn’t get them to print, because the paper had this embossed edge, you see. (I got it on super clearance, though.) So then he talked the to the man and we had to use ivory colored cardstock instead.”
“That’s it?” My dad asked. “That was the story?”
If PIC hadn’t fallen asleep in his beach chair, he could have told them all that the man at Staples printed them for free for us as a wedding gift (which I didn’t know at the time) and I could have redeemed my storytelling prowess but there was no such luck in this case, so I tried again.
“Claudia said that her husband Ryan ran into the same man in the bathroom three times at the wedding!”
My college roommate Aliza tried to come to my aid. “I’ll tell it. You left out what he said each time.”
She gave it her best shot, and finally concluded, “I guess you had to be there,” before launching into an absolutely side-splitting monologue about her life as a single Jewish woman living in the Midwest (where JDate has a grand total of about 5 members). It included phrases like, “The Frozen Chosen” and “Schmooze for Jews” and by the time she’d thoroughly cracked up our entire party, including our guests from across the pond (no small feat considering that everyone knows Brits have a more refined sense of humor than Americans), it was clear to me that I’d lost my touch.
I’m married now.
I tell married people stories.
And married people stories suck.
I need to find a new schtick. My husband is still asleep as I write this, but my sciatica was so bad that I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk and am currently sitting at a cafe overlooking the Grand Canal, waiting for my cappuccino and Nutella-filled chocolate croissant to kick in and inspire some appropriately humorous and literary-genius way to finish the story of our first dance, but I’ve got nothing.
So I’ll just tell you: he didn’t drop me, and I felt beautiful, and everyone cheered and it was perfect.
I guess I’ll go defrost some salmon burgers now…