What really happens when you settle down? Certainly, the champagne and caviar can’t last forever… Come on, tell me the truth. If y’all don’t, well… My single girlfriends are dwindling, my sisters are married—I’m afraid no one will tell me the essentials, the things I don’t want to hear but must. Everyone gives me a different story: good and lovely or nasty and ugly, uplifting or gut-wrenching, complete or broken, unbearable or joyous. In vino veritas? Fine, I’ll send each of you a bottle or two of wine, just please tell me what goes on behind the dense, seemingly impassable, mahogany doors of matrimony.
I want to know the truth about looking at your partner and feeling complete, turning on your side at night and not wanting them to touch you, catching a glimpse of them across the room at a crowded party and wondering how the dear Lord bestowed you with so many blessings, kissing them goodbye at the subway platform and wishing they would never come home… Is it really that good? Do things actually get that bad?
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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