Just before the release of my first book (Your Boyfriend & Other Guys I’ve Kissed, 2011), my boyfriend dumped me, citing that I was a flirt and that I’d “never be marriage material.” I’m not gonna lie. That really stung. Of course, he went on to marry the next guy he dated (they’ve since divorced, so jokes on him) and I’ve spent the last seven years wondering if I’m really not marriage material. I guess it all depends on how you define marriage. I don’t think I’m the “house with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids” type of guy. Hell, I turn 45 this summer. I don’t want to be 70+ when my kid goes to prom. Besides, while I like kids, I’d be the good-time dad and not the disciplinarian. I honestly don’t think I want that responsibility. It’s a wonder that I kept my sweet dear Lola alive for 14 years and many of those years, I felt like she was the one taking care of me. Also, I don’t know how I feel about monogamy and all of the other traditional heteronormative constructs to which people subscribe. Damn, you guys, I’m a wedding planner, and I don’t even know what I’d want to do for my own wedding! You’d think after planning hundreds of weddings that I’d already have a very specific, unique wedding planned out for myself, but I don’t! I just see centerpieces and detailed timelines and crying brides and wonder, “Is all of this really necessary?” So, yeah, fuck it, maybe I’m not marriage material. And I’m pretty sure I’m okay with that.
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