Last week, something super awesome happened. Something every little girl waits her whole life for, and it happened to me, and it was wonderful. Last week, Lindsay Lohan fell down in a cactus patch and people took pictures and it was hilarious and amazing.
Oh, and I got engaged.
I do not come here to get extra “Congratulations!” comments, though I’m never opposed to that kind of thing. What I’m here to do is make a promise. A promise to my future spouse, my friends, my fans and myself.
I promise to never be “That Girl.”
Everyone knows someone on Facebook who posts nothing but lameness, be it the passive aggressive bitch kind (“Jenny Lou Sassafrass LOL Loves bitches and fake people LOL”), the filled with Christ’s love kind (“Petey Strawhat had a sandwich today. It was delicious. The lord is good and will grant thine sunshine upon thee!”) or the emo desperate for attention kind (“Tawny Lemonjello is Oh I don’t even know anymore.”) But the worst kind? The engaged people.
Raise your hand if you’re a fan of the website STFU, Marrieds. That damn sure better have been everyone. If you’re not included in the everyone, click and return a changed person.
Long before STFU, Marrieds and its ilk, I had such an intense loathing for the people who constantly posted statuses telling the Facebook world how happy and in love they were, how angry and single they were and anything in between. But now, as a newly engaged person, I realize that I need to heed the lessons of these foolhardy updaters and ensure that I will never follow down the path of the lame and inane.
I vow to never use my Facebook status as a wedding countdown. I will allow myself to post something along the lines of “The wedding’s next week OMG” or “The wedding’s tomorrow OMFG” (and I’ll be marginally more creative, hopefully) but I will not post a new update on the daily saying “368 more days!” “367 more days!” “365 more days!” “Oh shit I messed up! It’s 366 more days so I’ll make up for it by posting the seconds too!” It’s annoying, uncool and a daily reminder to all the people who are so not invited to your fancy party ball and therefore do not give a ratshit.
I vow to never BrideJack anyone’s status. Ever. Everyone has had some conversation “-jacked,” be it in person or online.
“I’m tired today.”
“Oh, you’re tired? Just wait until you have three kids!”
“You think you’re hungry? Try having gastric fissures and irritable bowel. I’m hungry too and can’t do anything about it.”
“I got engaged this weekend.”
“Well I got engaged times infinity and bought a llama and choked on a chicken bone and almost died and was rescued by the late Ernest Borgnine, who isn’t dead yet.”
I just don’t understand people who do stuff like that. Have your own conversation. Don’t interrupt my attempt at small talk with your attempt at being an asshole.
I vow to never Bridezilla out over small things. False. I’ve already done it twice.
I vow to not turn this column into The Knot. I’m only doing it this time because a) it’s kind of all that’s on my mind what with it just happening and all, and b) literally the only other thing in gossip was that Lindsey Lohan falling down thing and I definitely did not have 1000 words on it. Only 650.
I vow to leave declarations of sappy love off the Internet. My
boyfr fiance (must get used to that) rarely gets online when it’s not fantasy football season. So making a daily cheesy Facebook announcement of how awesome our love is and how no one else’s life can possibly compete would really only serve to make others nauseated. And I genuinely believe that’s the real goal of the people who do this. Saying you love the person you love? Totally fine. Saying you love them so much and you can’t wait to get home and do things to their bodies and make them dinner and earn your “MRS” degree and be a trophy wife and make tiny pageant babies? Well that’s just not. (Think I’m exaggerating? Then I think you didn’t do as I said and click that link earlier. Do it, damn you!)
Finally, I vow to keep most of the details to myself. Facebook serves one true purpose: as a forum for me to share whatever new stupid pun I’ve come up with. It’s not for me to alert 700 of my closest acquaintances that I’m getting a colonic so that I won’t poo at my reception. I’m sure I’ll have an update for things like “Yay, I’m sampling cakes” or “Yay I’m sampling caterers” or “Yay I’m rewarding myself with deep fried items of edible deliciousness” or “I’m completely confused as to how I’ve been unable to lose weight” but I promise, promise, promise that it will not consume me.
I’m so happy. I’m stoked. I’m thrilled that next year, my bubs, the love of my life, will become my husband. But much like I pray I’ll never be the mom posting new and horrifying statues regarding her child’s poo fetish or genital discovery, I just cannot let myself go from fun independent normal person with a boyfriend to this.
And if I do?
Shoot to kill. Silver bullets only.
Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.