“How long do you plan to remain unmarried?”
It’s a dashed difficult question to dodge when sprung on a lad with a morning head, don’t you know. It ruins a chappie’s day when some cockeyed blighter with an incongruous snigger corners him at the entrance of an establishment he haunts to earn his daily bread at, and demands a prompt explanation. This just happens to be a preface to a long day riddled with questions seeking a plausible explanation of my reluctance to enter into the state of holy matrimony at the earliest. Well, I don’t wish to be rude to anybody, if you know what I mean, but I often revert at these inquisitive types with “How long do you plan to remain married?” or dismiss their question as a mere rhetoric.
I think it’s judicious to broadcast my views or taboos about marriage in writing through my weblog in order to do a spot of good to the speculative types I just harped about in the preceding paragraph.
I’m not married because the very idea of remaining cooped up with the same person for the remainder of my life sends beetles down my spine. On second thoughts, this is only partly true, I reckon. If one is married to a person one devotedly loves or falls in love with eventually after marriage, can bliss be any farther from that individual’s life? But then, where two strong-willed people reside, there is bound to be some friction. It’s the presence of fireworks and flowers in the correct proportion that makes all the difference.
Well, if the pastures are greener on the other side, then why not take the plunge? What stymies me is the deplorable condition of my cronies who, right after their respective marriages are not able to call their soul their own. Take for instance, the case of poor old Igor Trotsky (name changed for obvious reasons) whose wife is said to dictate his wardrobe. Once he wore a crimson suit with faint red stripes – a gift from his wife on his birthday, complemented with a pink shirt to my dinner party and looked perfectly foul in it. On enquiring, he grimaced that every piece of cloth he tried on that evening met with the vehement disapproval of his wife except the one that he was wearing then.
Then there is another fellow called Eustace Brinkley (name changed again), who is a perfect slave to his wife's whims. He is known to consume an eatable only after it qualifies the critical scrutiny of his wife. He’s neither allowed to swallow a cocktail because it’ll do no good to his liver or smoke a gasper because it’ll corrode his lungs or eat meat because it’ll choke his heart.
Cyril Bassington-Bassington (yes, you guessed it right, name’s changed), a bosom pal of mine, whom I have known since the time we wore Lord Fauntleroy suits and rolled in the mud together, was in tears the other day when he told me how his wife, a strong-willed professor of philosophy, shoved spadeful of Schopenhauer and Spinoza into his system. She wanted to make something out of the poor fellow so that he could make himself worthy of his wife.
This is preposterous. I mean there should be a proper criminal law in place in order to curtail the advances of such blighted women notorious for their reforming habits. Indubitably, the imposition of such a law will restrict their movement among free thinking men to a large extent.
Well, not all women are the subsets or supersets, for that matter, of the ones mentioned above. There are always those drooping, prattling, clinging, angelic types or my types, in short, lurking somewhere in the bosom of the society. But coming across such women lurking in the bosom of this vast society of ours is like finding a needle in a haystack. Well, one has to keep trying and to be honest, I’m not trying at all but fully reclining on Cupid’s arrow to miss its mark and puncture my heart or Lady Luck to change her perception and start smiling upon me.
Good women, so to speak, are in short supply these days. Most of them are already taken and the rest, don’t exist. The best I can do is wait; wait for that perfect woman to knock at my door, pop in, fling herself onto me and burnish my face with opulent kisses. Well, not much to ask for given that every pterodactyl with a secret sorrow in my vicinity has had been lucky enough to cherish the company of the woman he loves, adores and worships.