Love and Marriage

Well, it’s happened. Someone in my immediate circle has found the Peggy Bundy to his Al. My good friends Gerry Perez and Karly Davis are tying the knot. So why am I the one made nervous by it?

One of my friends finally getting hitched has forced me to take stock of my beliefs regarding love and marriage. Thankfully, most of my buddies live with me in a massive estate I’ve dubbed “Beta Male Manor” (it’s in a Let’s Just Be Friendsville, VA, zip code), and there won’t be many other nuptials to drag us away from the carousel of value menu lunches and “House, M.D.” marathons on the USA Network that our lives consist of. But even one of us managing to act like a normally developing adult male by living with a woman and, now, walking down the aisle, has dealt a severe blow to the cocoon of developmental retardation I’ve been so merrily playing Grand Theft Auto games from lo these many years.


I’ve got a confession to make: In theory, I really dig the idea of marriage. Who wouldn’t want to come home to some beautiful person who loves them, makes them laugh and has, according to the law of man and God, said, “Hey, over all others, I’ve chosen you, ya schmuck”? Just imagining that scenario made me smile. I’ve been in love before, and it felt like I was full of amphetamines but without the death breath and limp Señor Peñor. You’re saying I could have that feeling the rest of my life and the woman involved has to admit to the world she’s legally obligated to sleep with me? Outstanding.

On top of that startling revelation, I’ll also throw this your way: I can’t wait to have kids. Sure, there’s the whole Lifetime channel angle of love and caring and that crap involved, but to me, kids are also science projects which will allow me to breed out my own shortcomings. Of course I’ll marry for love (or a really rich father-in-law with advanced pancreatic cancer), but you can bet your ass the future Mrs. Papageorgiou will be 5’8,” brunette, lean and motivated. Hopefully, it’ll counter the large helping of stubby, neurotic tubbiness my own genes will be bringing to the table. Oh, and please, God, can I just have boys? Not that I have anything against daughters. It’s just that, every time I try to picture them, I can’t get past an image of me with a wig on. She even has my voice and sense of humor. “Dad, I’m going behind the bleachers to gang bang the basketball team. Or am I? Yeah, just shoot me now.


The problem with marriage is people enter into it without a clue about just how much effort it takes in the long run to keep it going, or even a single thought as to whether they’ll even want to keep it going once the passion of young love has cooled. Over 90% of the marriages I’ve seen have devolved into loveless standoffs, with the man staking his claim to the basement. The rest of the home is overrun by the wife and children that he would gleefully abandon if it weren’t for the legal costs involved precluding him from getting new trim once he got free. It conjures up images of Hitler cowering in his bunker, the Russian army conquering Berlin above him. What does it say about a scenario where you sympathize with Hitler? I hate sympathizing with Hitler. Where I come from, any time you speak the words “Poor, poor Hitler” something is terribly amiss.

Usually, the lusts that brought a couple together to begin with don’t even get a chance to die a dignified death. One day, you’re worrying you might have knocked her up because she insisted on banging you four times in a crowded theater during Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs because it was her favorite book as a kid (don’t judge me. I keep some cool company). Next thing you know, it’s “Honey, can you take a look at this? I think it’s a hemorrhoid, but I’m not sure. And be sure to put on gloves because it hurt too much to wipe.”


Given the way I’ve conducted my life thus far, this entire article has been moot. I’m so paralyzed by a childhood of hearing my parents fight over money that I wouldn’t want to get married without a six-figure income to my name (that sounds extreme until you hear Greeks fight. It gives you that same feeling as waking up to cats fighting in the middle of the night. Cats that use the Greek f-word). Not to mention that radio, the only job I have a chubby in my pants for, dooms you to a nomad life of jumping market to market, sleeping with the same overweight callers that the last guy who worked your shift did. Odds are, this is the last shred of Papageorgiou DNA that’ll ever pollute this side of the Atlantic. That sounds depressing, so I’ll leave you with a marriage-themed joke:Why do husbands always die before their wives? Because they want to. Bada bing.

Any married folks or folks about to get married want to post comments about what life is like for them, I’m all ears.

Tagged as: Al Bundy,  Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs,  Hitler,  Love,  Marriage,  Peggy Bundy.