I'm Having More Fun Than You (22 page)

Maybe it’s just denial on my part, but I still refer to my friends’ wives as their “girlfriends” and continue to call my married female friends by their maiden names. While I don’t wish it upon anyone, I figure, at some point, at least one of them will get divorced. And since I won’t have to update her last name in my address book twice, I’m the big winner.

LAST MAN STANDING

If you want to make an argument for the beauty of marriage, take my parents, married thirty-five years and still going strong. When I moved to a new apartment after my first year in LA, they flew out to help and I was able to observe them closely as we spent four straight days running errands while I futilely attempted to get them to pay for stuff. What I noticed was that, after all these years, my parents are still looking out for each other. My dad made a point to make sure that the air conditioning was strong enough to allow my overheated mom to sleep comfortably. And my mom would suggest we take a break to eat because she knows just when my dad is getting hungry. After a while, though, I realized these were not entirely selfless acts of adoration, but rather long-ingrained defense mechanisms. My dad wants my mom to be comfortable so that he can sleep without her tossing and turning. And my mom wants my dad to eat so that he won’t get cranky and start aggravating her. So in essence, I believe the key to a happy marriage is identifying, isolating, and mitigating what your spouse does to annoy you.

Though I frequently mock the concept of marriage, it is still a wonderful institution that works out about 50 percent of the time. And I do hope that one day—many years from now—I will get married myself. I guess, as they say, we mock things we don’t understand. And while I understand theoretically why the people I know are getting married, it’s hard to fully comprehend that commitment when you’re personally not there yet. That’s why wedding season is sometimes bittersweet for me. For instance, Marcia’s wedding was a little over ten years after we went to prom together. Since then, our lives couldn’t have become more different. But, in a way, not much had changed in a decade. Once again, I found myself at the end of a long night—alone and in a tux—with nothing to do but jerk off.

My college buddy Harlan is someone I’ve always looked up to in terms of being a sloppy, unrepentant party animal. So when even he got married, I really started to feel like the odd man out. I also realized that getting married has at least one huge advantage that being single can never match: unlimited license to get as stupid as you want while always having someone there who’s required to stick up for you. If Harlan gets plastered at a wedding, his wife can always step in and say, “He’s with me.” And people look the other way, knowing Harlan has at least attained some minimum level of maturity. If I cause a scene, I’m looked down upon: “It’s just some single guy who knows the groom. Don’t worry; he’ll be on a plane back to California in the morning.”

The truth is, most of my past serious relationships began with a one-night stand. In fact, many of my married friends actually met their husbands or wives in what started as a casual hook-up and then unexpectedly blossomed into something more. Therefore, it’s reasonable to assume that’s how I’ll meet my wife as well. So I figure the next time I try to take a girl home from the bar and she objects, asking, “What kind of girl do you think I am?” I can respond, “I guess not marriage material.”

A
s I was putting the finishing touches on this book, I decided to sit down and reread my first book,
Ruminations on College Life.
(And, yes, by “sit down” I mean I was in the bathroom.) At first, I was a little apprehensive about looking back at my thoughts on bachelorhood, some of which were written when I was as young as eighteen. But I was soon comforted when I realized that my thought process has remained consistent all these years. “The thing about college,” I wrote back then, “is that college kids don’t really date so much as we randomly hook up.” Turns out college me was a prescient little fucker.

Eight years after graduation, I’m still practicing what I preach—I’m just a whole lot better at it. To be fair, though, I have many more resources at my disposal now than I had at Penn. I didn’t even have a cell phone until junior year and was still using dial-up when I was a senior. Hell, when I was in college, Facebook was an
actual book
that we used to stalk chicks. Then again, the generation before me didn’t even have email. One can only assume they all graduated virgins.

When I was a freshman, I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be thirty. But age is strangely a much more constricting factor within the bubble of a university. I remember I had a crush on this junior girl, but even entertaining the thought of kicking game to a chick two years older than me was laughable. Perhaps that’s where the hubris of modern bachelorhood originates—from the vengeful angst we build up as hapless freshman guys. Today, a thirty-two-year-old woman wouldn’t even faze me. She
wishes
I was interested in her.

I recognize, of course, that not everyone will agree with the sentiments I’ve put forth in this book: that being single is more exciting and fulfilling than being in a relationship, and that getting married in your twenties is akin to signing fun’s death sentence. I suppose if you meet your soul mate right after college, continue to work hard, play harder, and maintain some semblance of the independent life you had before, all while enjoying the intimacy and camaraderie of a significant other, then you’ve beaten the system. I just haven’t seen a lot of empirical evidence supporting this scenario. It’s like an urban myth perpetuated by jewelers, dressmakers, TheKnot.com, and Williams-Sonoma.

In fact, I posit that the longer you’re single before getting married, the better off you’ll be, because only single people truly know what makes them happy. Unless you’ve spent years drinking your inhibitions away, putting yourself out there, experiencing the thrill of one-night stands, and coping with the agony of rejection, how can you really know yourself? Playing the field is merely doing due diligence while having a blast to boot. More importantly, what fun is married life if you don’t have any hijinx to reminisce about? Waking up next to your wife every morning must be twice as reassuring after you’ve spent ten years waking up next to chicks you have to introduce yourself to.

When I graduated from college, my dad imparted several bits of advice to me, which I wrote down and have referred to ever since. One of his simplest tenets is the one I’ve taken most to heart: “Keep your options open.” It sounds obvious, but I’ve found that many people don’t follow it. I’ve adapted it to work on so many levels too. Career: follow the path that opens up the most doors down the road. Bars: pick one that’s close to a few others in case the first one sucks. Chicks: don’t get roped into hitting on one girl all night, much less think about getting tied down to one forever. The list goes on and on. Throughout my twenties, I tried to follow my dad’s advice, and it served me well. If you fight for choice and don’t commit until necessary, the right option should present itself. The other piece of advice I got from my dad? “Don’t tell Mom I gave you this advice.”

Much like I couldn’t fathom being thirty when I was a freshman in college, turning forty seems a lifetime away from me now. But I’m also more excited for my thirties than I ever thought I’d be. I spent my twenties doing virtually anything I wanted. If there was a beer, I drank it. If there was a chick, I banged her (well, tried). I’m not certain what the next ten years will bring, but I do know that what constitutes living the dream is ever-changing. Right now, booze, chicks, and good times with the boys are what make me happy, and so I pursue those things with unmatched vigor. Years from now, it might be something different. But I’ll always look back at being a bachelor in my twenties with no regrets. Sure, I didn’t contribute much to my 401(k) or ever get invited to a wedding with a guest, but I can tell you this: I had more fun than anyone who did.

—
KARO
AUGUST 2009
LOS ANGELES

I
n the acknowledgments of all the books I’ve read, the author usually proclaims the work to be a “collective” effort, and the result of many uncredited “co-authors” without whom it would not have been possible. Fuck that. This book was a solitary effort and I spent months by myself slaving away at it.
I
made it possible. I do, however, have a sublime support system, and they deserve their due. I would like to thank the following people:

My sister Caryn, who has been editing my
Ruminations
column for the better part of a decade, and who also edited the proposal I used to pitch this book to publishers. Caryn, you are one of a kind. I love you and have always valued your opinion more than anyone’s, which is why it’s all the more painful when you tell me something sucks.

My parents, who continue to defy all logic by supporting my career choices, sitting through my obscenity-filled stand-up shows, and generally being pretty fucking cool. Mom and Dad, I love you and thank you for endowing me with the confidence to do what I do. And just for the record, I’ve now written
three
more books than Caryn.

Kate Hamill, who, unlike my sister, actually got paid to edit this book, but nonetheless treated it like her own. If you were offended by anything you read, you would not believe the suggestions from Kate that I
didn’t
include. Kate, you have a filthy mind but a sharp eye. Thank you for acquiring my work and helping me mold it into greatness.

Darren Trattner, my attorney and the longest-standing member of my Hollywood team. You would not believe the incredible amount of legal minutiae that’s required for everything I do. It’s his job to sort through the fine print and throw some elbows. Darren, it’s been a long, strange trip. Thank you for investing your time in my future.

Peter McGuigan, my agent. Although this is my third book, it’s the first time I’ve had a book agent. It’s surprisingly a lot easier this way. Peter, thank you for taking me on and singing my praises to publishers around New York. The first time we met, you told me there was “a chick, Kate, at HarperCollins who is gonna buy your book.” Right you were.

Michael Pelmont, my manager extraordinaire. Had he not introduced me to Peter, who introduced me to Kate, this book might merely be a pipe dream. But that’s what he does best: send me to myriad meetings, 99 percent of which are a complete waste of time. Michael, thank you for believing in me enough to tirelessly seek that elusive 1 percent.

My friends on both coasts, who know they are running the risk of being written about every time we hang out. Some of you have become minor celebrities in your own right from frequent mentions in my column. Don’t lie; I know you love it. All of you have been like a second family. Thank you for always being there to bring me down a peg.

Last but not least, my incredible fans across the country and around the globe, who have been supporting me for twelve years and counting. I cherish every email, wall post, and tweet I receive from you guys. Thank you for making all my hard work worth it. My career has been spent making you laugh; and there’s not a luckier guy in the world than me.