Matrimony. The very pinnacle of life and romance. Endless tax breaks, free car rides to the airport, and guaranteed “get-out-of-jail” free card when you commit that silly little crime known as credit card fraud (sorry babe, Roblox just dropped new Taylor Swift skins and I just had to buy it).
That’s why this year, I’d made a solemn oath on my life: this is the year I finally convince my Marriage Pact I am the one for him. I’ve burned the sage while walking three times backwards in a circle around the tree where my grandmother was buried. I sacrificed the lizard. I paid my ASSU student group fee. I can cook. I’m good with money. I can somewhat read. What more could a man possibly want?! I’m the ideal woman.
It was all going perfect that fateful Friday. The wind had a light rain to it. The streetlight right outside Arroyo flickered a warm yellow. The moon was bright, the sky dark. It was simply put, the ideal 4:30PM in Stanford, California. I had done my makeup, lit the candles, drawn the shapes, burned the incense and salted the little gremlin that was accidentally summoned (not necessarily in that order).
Picture the restaurant, a nostalgic 1980s children theme park featuring large anthropomorphic mouse skater potheads. I sat him down and lay out the benefits. He gets: better financial aid, fully-stocked kitchen, guaranteed cuddle buddy. I get green card, a foul-proof alibi as to where I was December 11, 2024 at 9:12 PM when the president of Stanford went missing, and a way to sneak into athlete dining.
It was going ideally, perfectly, stupendously even. He said no.
But that’s the thing about being the planner, I always have seven backup plans. Pucker up Mr. John, I have your social security number, your mother’s maiden name, and the name of your first guinea pig. A marriage license is $89.75 in Santa Clara County. Marriage Pact is a promise to the graveyard. Legally contracted, signed, and notarized. We’re in it for the long-haul baby. See you at the finish line.
