I was on the basketball team in high school. One night we played the number one team in the state. We weren’t ranked in the top one hundred. The game started and they scored ten points in about a minute and a half. Our coach called timeout. In the huddle he kept pleading, “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” We took the court again and they scored another ten points, almost as quickly. We called timeout again. The huddle was very quiet. Not even our coach knew what to say. I decided to break the deathly silence by asking, “Hey Coach… is it OK if we panic now?” We still lost, but we ended up making a real game of it. Who knows what would’ve happened if we’d gotten off to a strong start?

I’m NOT saying you’re down twenty points in the first quarter and I DO think it’s too early to panic. But I don’t think this is the fairy tale you’ve been dreaming of all these years and it begs the same question I’ve been asking myself for so long now – are you more suited for, and even destined to be alone?

Let’s start with the facts: Over half of all marriages end in divorce. Your parent’s marriage was a joke. Most of your married friends are miserable. Oh, and let’s not forget… you gave up your entire life to be in this marriage-to-be. These are not reassuring pieces of information, but they cannot, and should not be ignored.

The trouble with fact is that it sometimes gets in the way of a good romance. So maybe you moved a little too fast… you were digging the guy, and he was digging you just as much. And maybe you were forced by circumstance to sacrifice a lot more of your life than he did… you had a decision to make and you made it. The last time I checked, you guys were still engaged. Maybe it’s time you focused a little more on the good stuff that got you here, instead of the downright inconvenience of having to alter your bathroom habits or allow an end table to be placed in the wrong corner of the living room. He’s a good man and you love each other and there’s no way I would say or write this if it wasn’t certain of it. On the other hand, what if those things simply aren’t enough to make it work? I don’t have an answer for that any more than the next guy, despite the fact that it happens all of the time.

Hey, nobody said it was going to be easy… if it was every couple you know would be happy.

I had this girlfriend once, and I mean she was a girl who was really just a friend. She worked for me. She was (and still is, I presume) 12 years younger than me, but she was as smart and funny and cute as any woman twice her age. Sometimes, I wanted to sleep with her, but I never tried, and mostly I really enjoyed this unique friendship I had with her. For a while, she was as important to me as any friend I had and I really thought we’d be friends forever. At the peak of our friendship, she met a guy and eventually married him. They now have three kids and live about half an hour from me. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since the day she got married. I have no idea why, but I know that I regret it. I also know that I have no intention of letting that happen to us.

To me, relationships, friendships, affairs and the like all have a shelf life of sorts. For most, this shelf life is finite and the end result an enjoyable, but limited result. Only the special ones last a lifetime, or even close to it. But it goes back to what I’ve always said about relationships of any kind… circumstances have WAY MORE to do with them than we usually realize.

For example, which part of moving 60 miles away to live with the man you’re going to marry did you think was going to have zero impact on our friendship: the 60 miles part or the getting married part? You remember me, don’t you? I’m the guy with three kids who you already lived twenty miles away from – in the other direction. I’m the friend that you saw consistently, but hardly often, due to what they like to call in show business as, “scheduling conflicts.” Or put it another way… if you’d stayed put and I’d moved 60 miles in the other direction, would we have seen each other any more than we have now?

And now that I’m rolling… yeah, TNG and I are all good and yeah, he knows we’re only friends and yeah, even under the surface he’s as comfortable with our friendship as if I were female, or gay. No one is happier about this than me. But do you really think that means I’m calling you up at 10:30 at night because I’m drunk, or because I’m pissed at my girl or because you left a weepy message on my voicemail three hours earlier? The truth is I’m not. If it’s an emergency, I promise not to hesitate. Other than that, the conversation will have to wait until tomorrow… or next week. I’m sure it would be OK with you. But I won’t do it out of respect to him. Call it old-fashioned if you want… I prefer to call it old school.

As far as being “in?” Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss the next twenty or so years of your life for season tickets to the Boston Celtics. Well, unless they were floor seats. Just kidding. You’re stuck with me.

It’s not you, it’s me… really. And since I’m not breaking up with you, you can believe I’m telling the truth. I’m not a dreamer and I’m not an idiot. I am fully aware that meeting the family and surviving a garage sale together are moments as common and integral to the success of a relationship as a good sex life and the ability to laugh at each other without wanting to kill each other. I’ve read enough magazine articles and surfed enough Internet to know that what you are saying about the potential and viability of a relationship is defined way more by the small and dull moments than it could ever be by the grandiose and sweeping moments. I know this in my head, but in my heart I still have a hard time making the connection. In my heart, I still fear that this is a truth I may never be able to reconcile.

Allow me to state my shallow case by addressing the menu you have so painstakingly laid out before us, one item at a time:

Meet his family… If he’s good to his mother, then he’s the guy for you.

If a guy isn’t good to his mother, chances are a woman with a pulse will know it by the second date. A guy who treats his mother poorly will usually reveal himself by then. A guy who treats his mother poorly is either, A) a complete asshole, B)… well, he’s just a complete asshole. Passing this test is like passing finger painting in kindergarten… It’s truly nothing to brag about.

Get sick. If he takes care of you, then he’s the guy for you.

The first time I took this test, I received a D. My girlfriend was home alone with a fever of 103 and I played both ends of a softball doubleheader, followed by a post-game drinking session with my teammates. I’ve gotten much better. I’ve taken this test about 400 times since then and I’ve worked my way up to a C minus. My solution is this: don’t get sick.

Go on a trip. If you travel well together, then he’s the guy for you.

Isn’t this kind of easy? Let’s see… cocktails on the plane, hotel sex, great weather, hotel sex, no work, hotel sex, white sand beaches, hotel sex, gourmet meals, conscience-free shopping and yes, hotel sex. How tough is this? If I care enough about a woman to even consider taking a trip with her, the rest is gravy to me.

Live together. If you don’t kill each other in the first six months, then he’s the guy for you.

I’m glad your “living together” engine is running more smoothly of late. I’m happy you’ve moved beyond a menu of daily meltdowns and buckets of tears and you know I wish you nothing but complete and utter giddiness in your new life. Still, there’s four months to go before you reach the end of this mythical, six-month probation period… But let’s not pop the champagne just yet, champ.

Have a garage sale together. If he lets you sell all his shit, then he’s the guy for you.

………………… Oh sorry, I fell asleep on my keyboard for a second.

Call me crazy, but I’d like to think that it takes a lot more than the absence of a domestic felony at a garage sale to help a woman decide if the man of her dreams remains the man of her dreams. But, whatever floats your boat.

Oh, and congrats on the brand-new oven your collective possessions bought you… and the fact that you slept in the same bed that night.

When it comes to past lovers, we must be very, very good.

For guys, it’s about the lure of temptation and the ego stroke of being wanted, even if the only thing we’re wanted for is what’s hanging between our legs. We’re usually more than happy to take a trip down memory lane with an old flame when the opportunity arises. We don’t even need the memories to be particularly romantic or, well, memorable.

Sure, I remember all that great sex we had (even though I was drunk every time).

Sure I remember our first kiss (I was already deciding how soon it could be until our last kiss).

Sure, I remember that weekend we were invited to your sister’s beach house (I spent the entire weekend figuring out how I could have sex with her instead of you).

When sex from the past reappears in the present, I don’t know too many guys that don’t at least give it some thought, if not action. Okay, I don’t know any guys that don’t at least give it some thought. And I know a lot of guys who give it some action.

Everybody in a relationship carries the baggage of their individual past. The later in life we commit to someone, the more baggage we bring to the table. At a certain point, we all have a decision to make: Are we about our past, and the baggage we carry, or are we about the now, and what we still believe can be? You made it clear where your choice lies… I’d like to think I’d do the same thing in your shoes.

Either way, I see no reason to share whatever baggage we carry with someone we love, if it doesn’t reveal itself on its own. Part of having someone love us is allowing them to think of us more highly than we would otherwise… Why rob someone we love of feeling this way?

I’m happy for you… I really am. As close friend, writing partner and one of your biggest fans, true happiness is all I’ve ever wanted for you. Maybe you’ve (finally) found it. Maybe baking banana bread while folding laundry and debating the merits of shampooing the living room carpet is a hidden nirvana for which I lack the depth to appreciate. Maybe re-arranging closets and adjusting to the personal bathroom habits of a loved one warms the cockles of many a heart, despite leaving mine numb and in search of an exit sign. Maybe true love has less to do with passion and fire and living the lyrics of a classic love song, and more to do with all of the little things that transpire between a man and a woman while washing dishes or mowing the lawn or falling asleep together in front of a reality TV show. For the sake of those who still believe, I choose to hope so. For the romantic cynic that still resides in me, I’m not so sure.

So now what? A quick rewind of the last six months of your life reveals a ton of pros, the occasional con, and an engagement as endearing as it was lame, a relocation that probably came too soon, two weeks of tears and terror followed by… domestic bliss. Talk about an oxymoron. Who decided to combine “domestic” with “bliss?” A man and a woman living together and getting married is tough enough… The pressure of turning the “domestic” into “bliss” can be enough to derail even the purest of love affairs. Domestic and bliss should never be paired together; they do each other a complete injustice. Domestic is easy – you had domestic figured out before you even had your driver’s license. Every fairy tale and Disney movie has made sure of that. It’s the bliss, and its elusive nature that renders us all clueless. It’s the bliss, or its lack thereof that turns our hearts upside down and our minds inside out. It’s the bliss that had you move in with this man you love way before you were ready and it’s the bliss you feared you’d lost that had you packing your bag the second week you were there. The bliss is what we all seek, yet only occasionally find. The bliss, at least the promise of it is what keeps us coming back for more, rarely ever knowing if it even exists.

So I repeat… now what? You’re engaged. You live with him. You’re marrying him (eventually). He’s messy? Boo freaking hoo… deal with it. He craps with the bathroom door open? Do you know what that makes him? Every man you know, including your writing partner. You have questions? You don’t need my answers. You’ve always known this is the way it was going to be, and now you’re making shit up because somewhere deep inside you’re afraid it’s all supposed to be different. Somewhere deep inside, you’re afraid it’s supposed to be … better. From this fear, you should release yourself. This is a fear we all share, yet will never solve. This is a fear that simply comes with the territory. This is a fear that keeps people like me living alone and a fear that you chose to ignore when the moving van pulled up in front of your apartment last month. Your new home has plenty of space, but it has no room for this fear, and any regret that might come with it.

He probably thinks you look really cute in your jammies and sweat socks… But yeah, the mouthwash is key.

On the other hand, there’s a reason why we have rules, even those that are fundamentally flawed. You managed to break one of the more important of these – the “timing is everything” rule. Good timing can offset a multitude of sins… bad timing can destroy a love affair worth remembering. You probably fall somewhere between the two, but simply put you packed up and moved before you were ready.

I remember thinking to myself, “So soon?” I also remember thinking to myself, “They have an engagement. They have a rough game plan. They have a moving day. Who am I to cast doubt on something so good because the timing doesn’t feel right?” Now we have the benefit of hindsight, and you know what they say about hindsight – it’s crystal clear. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready logistically, and you weren’t ready emotionally. It’s almost as if you panicked… NOT because you were afraid to lose him and NOT because you haven’t gotten damn good at flying solo. You panicked because the female gene deep inside you, the one that took hold of you before you ever had a chance was all of a sudden doing your thinking for you. You lost sight of the fact that you LOVE living alone and you lost sight of the fact that you LOVE your freedom. You became the sweet little girl they always told you to be, the one who willingly put her own needs and desires on the back burner to accommodate those of the man she loves. We only know this through the power of hindsight, but know it now, we do. Hey, men panic too… but when we panic, we run in the other direction.

So now what do you do? Like you said… you are home. You could go back home again, but it will never be the same, and you know it. From the cheap seats, allow me to offer a few suggestions:

Stop being so polite. Stop asking, ever so sweetly if that third drawer on the right with the broken handle might be available to you. You gave up your life for this. You uprooted everything you knew and owned to be with him on his terms, and his timetable. If you’re going to have big enough balls to do this at all, don’t give them up once you get there.

Stop being bummed at him for being who he is. If I can think of the single most hypocritical point of view when it comes to commitment, it is this: we fall in love with, and sometimes even choose to marry someone because of who they are – and we then spend the rest of our time together bemoaning the other for the exact same characteristics and habits. If you knew his makeup going in, don’t expect him to be any different because you’re there. If you didn’t know his makeup going in, timing might not have been your only problem with this move.

Stop stressing over boxes and drawers, and start fucking – a lot. Stop caring about furniture. It’s… furniture. When he hangs in the hot tub with a beer in his hand, stop being jealous. Instead, grab a beer and join him. That’s the girl he thought was moving in with him. That’s the guy you fell in love with.

If you’re going to go down, don’t do it with a whimper (and a bucket of tears)… do it with everything you have.

When it comes to hanging out with other dudes, you’ll never catch me in a group of more than three guys at a time. There’s just no way. Every time I see a group of four or more men out at night, I’m almost embarrassed to call myself a guy. They’ve either come from the office, sporting their Brooks Brothers suits and graduate degrees, or they’ve just finished lifting weights together and it’s time to reward the ladies of the world by showing off the results of all that grunting and chortling. I don’t belong at either table. Whenever I’m with four or more dudes, I usually end up discovering that I don’t even like any of the guys I’m with. How counterproductive is that? I’m convinced that when it comes to guys hanging out in a group, size does matter… only this time it’s the smaller, the better.

It’s different for women. First of all, the more women in the room, the more good-looking women in the room. It’s simple math. There are plenty of times you’ll see a pair or a trio of women and none of them are particularly special to look at. When you add a fourth woman, and then a fifth, the odds start tilting towards a major upgrade. The fourth shows up and the whole table gets better looking. The fifth shows up and music starts playing (the hot ones are always late, aren’t they?). When a fourth or fifth guy shows up, the only thing that changes in the room is the noise level.

It’s also different with women because you dress up when you go out. The larger the group of women, the better and sexier you dress. Add to that the fact that women often go to great lengths NOT to dress alike, and the guys in the room are rewarded with a little something for everyone. When guys go out, we usually opt for a quick shower and the nearest clean shirt. We could just as easily be a beer commercial or an ad for The Gap – it’s all been seen before.

Mostly it’s different for women because there’s nothing more boring than walking into a bar, restaurant or lounge and entering to a room full of guys. Ladies brighten up a room. When you girls grab a table or occupy a space, the room looks, sounds and even smells better. I can’t speak for the knucklehead brigade, but when real guys go out at night we all secretly hope to run into a cool, fun group of good-looking women with enough brains and style to keep our eyes focused on your face instead of your cleavage. Otherwise, there’s a reason why ESPN Sportscenter is on seven nights a week.

I’m only disappointed in two things… 1) that I wasn’t invited and 2) that you didn’t do anything to be even remotely ashamed of. Where’s the fun in that?

So when you book the room for next year, let me know which hotel.

There are general behaviors to which virtually all women fall prey. Your visit with the dark side of falling in love (that whole, “when we marry, we marry his/her family” thing) seems to have dusted off some classics:

Woman vs. woman: You guys actually compete with each other… for what, I’ve never been able to figure out, but when women meet women, the sizing up and the phony smiles can be downright comical. “Not an overwhelmingly warm hug?” Who sizes up a hug? Women do, that’s who. Maybe you guys should dust off the high five or learn to adopt the fist bump to avoid future discomfort.

Wardrobe wars: this is simply one more area where it is SO MUCH BETTER to be a man. You’d find our standard quite liberating. “Don’t dress like a douchebag.” That’s it. That’s where most of us draw the line. Oh, and if a guy does dress like a douchebag, we rip him for it… only we do it to his face. And one more thing: No father in American history would ever call his daughter’s boyfriend and offer a poolside wardrobe guideline. How did you manage not to drink a bottle of vodka after that touching, future-family moment?

Mothers-in-law: They don’t write songs about fathers in-law. They don’t make movies starring J Lo and Jane Fonda at nuclear war with each other called, “Monster in-law.” You may have only seen the tip of the iceberg on this trip. It doesn’t have to be all bad. The good news is, you’ll probably have a new best friend. The bad news is, you probably don’t need a new best friend. The good news is, she lives 1,000 miles away. The good/ bad news is, this means that you will see her less often, but in very close quarters for more concentrated periods of time, like Thanksgiving… as in less than two months from now… as in for a five day weekend… five long days. If I ever have a mother in-law again, I hope she lives right around the corner. We don’t need to be seeing each other in our jammies.

BTW, I get the awkward moment feeling when she showed you to your room? Still, I have a newsflash for you, Peggy Sue… you’re no spring chicken. Besides, think how much more awkward you would have felt that very moment if it had come after the one-piece bathing suit comment?

There’s a great line in sports broadcasting that references the inevitability of growing older as an athlete by stating, “The only sure thing in sports is that Father Time will always be undefeated.” My rendition of that line regarding the world of serious relationships is to acknowledge and surrender to the fact that everyone, and I mean everyone brings some amount of serious baggage into a relationship. TNG seems to be pretty damn comfortable accepting your baggage into his life. If you’re being asked to gracefully accept a four year-old boy growing a four year-old boner in front of his mom, also known as your sister in-law, that is simply part of the package.

You can always write a screenplay about it.

This planet is littered with the shattered dreams and broken hearts of women who assume what men want is full scale attention and utmost devotion. This may be true with some guys, but chances are that those guys are also the first ones to sneak off and bang the nanny or personal assistant once real life takes hold of things. Real men don’t want our woman to pretend George Clooney isn’t sexier than we are any more than want to be hammered into guilt and submission with undying adulation. We will ALWAYS take notice of a good-looking woman. We will ALWAYS turn our head when she walks by. It doesn’t mean we don’t love and respect you. It doesn’t mean we’re going to run off with the lifeguard from the kiddie pool. What it means is that we’re human. What it also means is that you get to be human too.

BTW, “Come back if you want to measure anything?” Are you serious? Do you think he knew you found him attractive? Do you think his mind went to the same place that mine went to when he heard you say that? The next time you come face-to-face with a good-looking dude, try not to sound like an actress in a soft-core porn flick. Lucky for you, TNG would be too busy laughing at that line to ever get pissed off or jealous about it.

So, welcome to our world. Now you know what men go through EVERY DAY. I could use my day today as a prime example, but if you’re a man, EVERY day is a prime example. Take me, for example. I may not be looking, but it doesn’t make me blind. Maybe I need to get out more, but today I went clothes shopping. Yes, by myself. As my head turned from one female shopper’s mission to another, I found myself asking why I don’t go shopping for clothes every free moment I have. Is it me, or does every good-looking woman in every town in America shop for clothes on a Saturday afternoon? Even the check-out girls had potential, underneath their insecurities and limited options in life. Yet even as I was enjoying the view, I also found myself rack-to-rack with an array of visual vignettes that represented mine, and many other men’s greatest relationship fears; The couple shopping together, sniping and arguing with each other every step of the way… the homely woman, shopping in the men’s department for her significant other while he plays golf or watches football with his friends at some bar and flirts with the waitress… the lonely dude, shopping with no style compass, barely capable of choosing his own underwear, much less a pair of pants and matching shirt. After a cursory exploration of the men’s department and a couple of random purchases, I couldn’t get back to my car fast enough.

My point is this; every time we leave the house (or, in your case, without even leaving the house), we are guaranteed to see a member of the opposite gender that will turn our head, maybe even rock our foundation. We might even allow a thought or two to pollute our already polluted minds about what they might be like to spend some time with, or how they look naked. This only makes us human… or men. In your case, consider yourself both, and lucky to be so.

I’m talking about the time you signed up for a singles vacation. I forget the exact name of this excursion to debauchery, but I remember two of the words in the title were, “Hedonism” and “Jamaica.” At the time I said, “I’ll bet you all the money in my pocket (and I was rolling in it those days) that this will be the last time you’ll go near anything remotely resembling a singles vacation, for the rest of your life.” You came back from the trip a changed woman. You realized you’d outgrown that scene and had begun the process of outgrowing that life. It seems to me that you are simply taking the final step in this process these next few weeks. It’s been a long journey for you, as evidenced by the tear and puke stains on TNG’s favorite new piece of furniture.

Being a quality wingman (or wingwoman, in your case) is wildly overrated. If we’re not getting laid, it only serves to reinforce our feelings of being a loser. If we’re in a relationship, it makes us long for the single life. Where exactly is the joy in riding another’s wing? On the other hand, riding the wing is somewhat akin to phone sex… we get to enjoy the ride, without the pressure and responsibility of piloting the plane.

There’s a twisted nobility to covering for a married friend. Chances are you were the only one they could trust with a secret so deep and important. Chances are you were the only one with whom they could be certain they would not be judged. Chances are you were only ten minutes away in afternoon traffic. This may say bad things about them, but it says only good about the kind of friend you’ve always been. I have no match for your rumpled sheets, but I’ve certainly logged enough hours covering a married ass or three in my life. I never felt guilty about it. I never felt morally responsible. To me, true friendship trumps just about anything. I never felt like an accomplice, I only felt like a friend… a damn, good friend.

The trick isn’t worrying about your married friends and the world you’re leaving behind… the trick is making sure the flip side of that never becomes your world to begin with.