Musings on marriage

A few weeks ago at work a beastly looking woman plundered through our doors in search of a husband. After relinquishing her extra caramel white mocha into her stubby little hands I realized that I had gone to school with this fried food amalgamation. Fortunately she failed to recognize me and tromped off in search of her poor unsuspecting blind date that I have no doubt she lured on the internet with a blurry-picture-of-myself-in-the-mirror-that-you-can’t-really-make-out. Her date was not an unattractive man by anyone’s one-to-ten scale and looked stoically resigned to the idea that he would have to at least forfeit a half an hour of his time to this Hee Haw cast away who was now suffocating the seat in front of him. At least he made her pay for her own drink. They shifted into small talk; attended _____, grew up______, favorite______, oh my god you______ too! Just as I thought my eavesdropping efforts were in vain she leans across the table with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for Catholics and nurses with bad lab test results and said,

“So what are your feelings on marriage?”

Without skipping a beat, he leaned back in his chair and replied,

“What do you know about Henry VIII?”

That was a week ago. I have still not stopped laughing. To this man, if by chance you ever happen to read this, I am sorry. I will be stealing your comeback and passing it off as my own. That said, your next drink is on me.