Weddings, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Chris's best friend Jay is getting married this summer. He agreed to get married with the proviso that his fiancee agreed to do all the wedding planning. Now I don't really know her too well, but I can imagine that this kind of set-up is pretty much ideal for these two. Except for the part where Chris is the best man, and still can't tell me exactly when the wedding is, or if he's leaving town for a bachelor party, or how long I should plan to be away. (It's a good thing I'm totally laid back about everything and never, ever panic or plan ahead.) I do know, however, that its weekend conflicts with all the coolest events in the Pacific Northwest: Puzzle Safari, the Rainier to Pacific Relay, Urban Challenge Seattle. Fortunately, the wedding is in Philadelphia, which is just lovely in late July.

Actually, we're both really looking forward to this wedding, except for the part where it will lead to all kinds of great discussions about our own timeline. Maybe you've had them too. You get back from someone's wedding or you hear that your cousin got engaged or you're sitting in the car in the parking lot at the grocery store talking about what fruit you need to buy and it goes kind of like this:

Girl: Hey, when are we going to get married?
Boy: Um, did you see that TiVo recorded America's Funniest Pets? Haha! America's funniest pets are funny!
Girl: I asked a question.
Boy: What was that? I was watching that cat do the limbo.
Et cetera.

I have many friends who play the role of Boy in this dialogue in their domestic lives, and I have always been and continue to be full of sympathy and comforting words about how women can seem sort of insane sometimes.

So what I want to know is why I sometimes end up playing the part of Girl these days. This didn't used to happen. And in a relationship where I'm the one who spends Sundays watching football, too. My life is becoming a bad Woody Allen movie, only with geekier electronics.

***
In unrelated news, I figured out why my car battery died. It turns out not to have been very mysterious after all. Those bastards at the car wash left my parking lights on a couple days ago. I know it was the bastards at the car wash because I have never touched that switch in my life. I had to look in my car manual to see where it was. They probably made it rain that afternoon too. Bastards.