Stories: The Plan

"I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury." -- Groucho Marx

For the next few days or over the next week, I'm going to sketch out some of the stories I often tell. Since I'm in the middle of grading papers (whoo let's learn us some ENGLISH PLZ), I am going to talk about The Plan instead of my tense relationship with my, er, place I was for four years and left with a degree. You know; that...place. But yes, The Plan. This Plan is as controversial as it is hilariously controversial. That's why I chose it.

Best to start with some background. I like to tease people who are in relationships, and especially people who are otherwise serious. It's one of the joys of being single, and such joys must be appreciated while they last. One day Pastor Pete was carrying something for his then-fiancee Gina, and I was duly needling her about this. She informed me that I would be doing something similar one day, to which I politely responded that hecks no. Some people may try to fill up their empty lives with a relationship, but I'm more than happy with Michigan football (graaaahhh) and Pizza House pizza, thank you. From the ensuing exchange, needless to say, a little wager arose. If I am still single by the age of thirty-five, then Gina will buy me pizza from Pizza House.

Now, you never make a bet with someone that hinges entirely on their decision. Just a little advice.

When I mentioned this to several other people, similar wagers were made. My friend Susan is buying me Pizza House pizza at age 30, Gloria at age 40, and (I think) Sam at age 45. Now, this set me to thinking even more. I've always said that if I don't die early, I haven't eaten the way I really want to eat. So the Pizza House wagers made me decide it might be best if I aimed at dying of a heart attack at age 48. There's no history of heart disease in my family, really, so this would be a pretty big accomplishment. But I have no lack of ambition.

I recently added Jiyeon to the list of people buying me Pizza House (age 32.5). There was another recent modification, too: for the sake of awesomeness, if somehow the heart attack thing doesn't seem likely when the time is drawing nigh, I'm going to attempt to become the first person to fly across the Pacific in an ultralight aircraft. The advantages to this are that, if it works, holy dang. Awesome. If, as seems likely, I perish along the way, then there's no need for a whole expensive coffin, burial, etc.

There is an addendum. If, somehow, I do get married and leave an heir (which good luck with that, world), then I'm naming him Nancy Boy. I am doing this on the "Boy Named Sue" Principle, which is that boys with girlie names will grow up tough with all the teasing they will undoubtedly receive. Ultimately, such a son would probably end up playing NFL ball and supporting me in my old age, assuming he doesn't avenge himself on me first. Some things must be left to luck, after all. This also means that, if I get married, I shall have to get married to someone who is about 5'7"...someone who, although not necessarily taller than me, has or would likely have large, athletic brothers.

So there it is: a future all planned out and almost perfectly crafted to elicit amusing responses from those who hear it. A final note: When asked, "But what will you do?" the only possible answer is, "Not being married? Probably whatever I want." Discuss.