April 15, 1998
The irreverent, anti-establishment redneck in me tried to
warn me about marriage but, hard-headed and idealistic, I scoffed.
"There is NO way," I responded confidently, "that I will allow
being married to change me! Nosirree! My free spirit will NOT be shackled!"
Alas, I was wrong. I'm becoming a respectable middle-class citizen
faster than my hairline is receding. When I look into the mirror these
days, I sometimes shudder.
The only thing about it is, I'm enjoying it.
For most of 39 years, see, I did my best to assume the guise
of rumpled journalist — jeans and T-shirts here, thankyouverymuch. Haircuts
happened on an irregular basis, usually when the forelock began to interfere
with vision. (Male pattern baldness eventually eliminated that problem,
but haircuts were still something of a once-per-quarter thing).
Nossir, I confidently predicted, Peg will never, never change
my bohemian lifestyle — which, of course, she did almost immediately. My
closet is now a walking advertisement for the Men's Wearhouse, and the
barbers ask me, "Same as last time?" when I drop in once every two weeks.
I also predicted confidently that my abhorrence of the bourgeois
middle class would stand fast when it came to general lifestyle. My petrified-sock
collection, for example, would remain a hallmark of the apartment, which
would also retain its rustic, "lived-in" look.
I pondered that vow this weekend, in fact, as I carted out a
trash-bag full of petrified socks following a very convincing argument
from Peg: "Dave, if you don't get rid of these, I'm gonna throw up!"
It also appears that my decades of apartment living and idealistic
looking down my nose at homeowners may also be coming to an end; we made
an offer on a house this weekend. Look out, Katyland.
Granted, our reasons for wanting the house differed.
I was sold on the fact that it has a chihuahua-compatible backyard,
one spare bedroom which could be converted into a computer/writing room,
adequate space for all my bookshelves, a second spare bedroom ideal for
housing and displaying my collection of 3,000 fantasy miniatures, and a
covered patio ideal for building the Great American Barbecue Pit.
Peg looked at the house and saw spare bedrooms for guests and
family (especially babysitting assorted nieces and nephews), an open dining/kitchen
concept ideal for entertaining family gatherings, two bathrooms, a front
yard which lends itself to growing roses, and a master bedroom with enough
closet space to buy out the rest of the Men's Wearhouse.
"We'll have to get a lawnmower, you know," she cooed to me as
we signed the offer. I immediately broke out in a nervous sweat at the
very thought of performing physical labor.
Gone also are the wild weekends of the proverbial swinging-single
lifestyle, dancing and partying until dawn. They've been replaced by weekends
of visiting our far-flung families, shopping, and watching movies I'd normally
wait to rent from the video store.
After years of half-heartedly trying, I've finally written not
one, but two, books — thanks in great part to Peg's "bullying." One's on
the Internet now, the other is expected to hit the bookstores by early
summer at the outside. I'm getting requests for TV and radio appearances
(where again, of course, I get to model the new suits). When I go to the
grocery store, people call me "Mister."
The irreverent, anti-establishment redneck in me wants to resist
all these changes. Fortunately, I'm too hard-headed to listen.