Weddings, Weddings, Weddings. They are everywhere this time of year.  But don’t feel sorry for me because I am without an intended.  I could be married now if I wanted. Really, I could.  I could have married the man I now refer to as my stalker.   Of course, he hadn’t completely evolved into  a true stalker when we were hanging out.   The true stalker nature of a person is only realized after the relationship has ended.   But I’ll just say that based on the events that transpired since we stopped seeing each other, well, I have reason, good reason,  to call him my stalker.

Still,  had things gone differently, had I been desperate for matrimony,  had I lost my mind,  I could be calling him my husband.   We talked about it.  Well, actually,  he talked to me about it.  He also talked  to a priest about it, and he talked to his invisible  friends about it, friends I never met.  To be fair, I admit that he didn’t formally get down on one knee and ask me,  because I was, at the time, still legally married (little issue), had not expressed any interest in remarrying anyone (bigger issue),  and had not professed love for him (the  biggest issue of all),   but these little complications did not deter  him from making plans for our life together, in holy matrimony.

So, since the wedding season is in full swing,  the following is a fanciful fictionalized account of what could have been if I had said ” I do” and become . . . Mrs. Stalker.   

If I’d married my stalker:

• My house would be clean. Really clean. He had OCD (I believe) and liked to clean. Yes, things would be clean. Really. Clean.

• My dogs would be well-groomed also. What am I saying ?  My dogs would be gone.  He couldn’t handle such four-legged walking germ festivals.

• I would have sex, often and for prolonged periods of time. Then I’d have to talk about it.

• I’d be clean, hands washed as if for surgery, often and for prolonged periods of time. We wouldn’t have to talk about that — so long as he saw me doing it.

• I would have savings and new clothes. He liked me to look nice.  He’d buy me pretty dresses.

• I would have an escort for everything.  He’d never let me go anywhere alone.

• I’d be Episcopalian, because I’d have to be. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

• I’d have a storage unit, possibly more than one, because he was incapable of throwing anything out. And we would visit our things stored there, often and for prolonged periods of time.

• I would know I’m loved because he’d tell me, often and for prolonged periods of time.  And then I’d have to talk about it.

• I’d be having surgery and/or looking into surrogacy and/or freezing eggs to see if someone could bear a child he could call his own.

• I’d have someone to shop with, since he loved to shop. And no, my would-be-stalker-husband is not gay, but I’d spend a fair amount of time attempting to convince others of that— knowing in my heart of hearts that I could  not be successful.

• I’d be on time, because he’d never allow tardiness.  To that end,  would call me  in 15 minute increments to make sure I was ready for whatever we had planned.

• My computer would have the most up-to-date, state of the art, anti-virus software, because, you can never be too careful.

• I may or may not have mother-in-law issues, because I’m not sure whether “mother” is still with us. Don’t ask, it may have been a Norman  Bates situation.

Norman’s mother in the Hitchcock’s classic, Psycho

• To make him happy, I would  have to answer these questions, often and for prolonged periods of time:

“Are you happy”
“Are you thinking of me?”
“Do you love me?”

And,  the ever popular question that every girl wants to hear,

“Do you think that’s wise?”

Well,  it was wise to end that relationship. Even though it took quite a while and an exchange of letters from lawyers for that ending to take effect.   Actually,  I only just recently received a post-Rapture text.   Sigh.

In conclusion, while weddings are nice, and it’s good to feel loved and partner up,  I didn’t want a husband that badly (or not at all, really).   I don’t care that Mr. Stalker was good on paper, well endowed with stamina to back it up, wanted to be a provider for me and my brood,  and that he really, really, really, really, really . . .  loved  . . . me.   None of that matters, because if I’d married him for the sake of being married,   and allowed myself to be swept away  (swept, being the operative word), well,

. . . that would have been  bad —- clean,  but very bad.

And, if you’ve found my blog, Mr. Stalker,  and are  reading this, I  want  you  to know:

No, I do not love you.

No, I don’t want to be friends.

No, I do not want to know if you are thinking of me.

No, my lack of love for you cannot be explained by alleging  that I  have  lingering feelings for my Ex-Husband.  I don’t love him either.

No, I will not be paying you back for any money you spent on me.

and . . .

Are you sure I’m really talking about you?

And, by the by, I just played with my dog and I haven’t washed my hands in like an hour.

Just Me With . . . no rings on my only moderately clean left hand. 

Related, sadly, “He Lives With His Mother?”