It’s always good to have a backup, right? Spare tire. Toothpaste. Roll of toilet paper within reach. All quite essential. So, doesn’t it make sense to have a backup lover? You don’t want to admit this with your current lover close-by. I get it. Let’s call this our little secret.
A lovely barkeep confessed to having backup lovers last night. She clarified that a backup lover is not the same as a fuckbuddy. (Oh, rats.) She explained that a backup lover is one you mutually agree to wed if, for example, you reach 30 and it hasn’t happened.
“Christ, I’m getting close to 60 and I don’t have a backup.”
“Ha. You’re fucked. I have five,” she confessed proudly.
Sadly, I am not in her top five. More sadly, I actually hoped there was a chance I was. I may be cumming dust but I haven’t lost my blind ambition.
Perhaps this is more typical for women. Do you have arrangements with men like this?
“OK, so let’s agree that if we both hit thirty and are still single, we’ll team up and avoid the depression of growing old alone. Cool?”
Kind of makes sense, I guess. Sure, I wanted love, marriage, and kids at her age. Now, I want a remote, La-Z-Boy, and glass of wine in a quiet room. The only sidecar on my lounger is on the rocks with a twist.
Who would be on my backup list? Primarily, women who either don’t know me or do know me well enough to keep off their lists.
“You wouldn’t ever get married again?”
“Oh, heavens no.”
“OK, if Sandra Bullock strutted in right now, slapped me on the back, and insisted we get hitched, I’d be married before you could deliver my next drink.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Right. No chance. No shit. That’s fine. More wine.”
Having a backup love seems like caving in and giving up on finding love that could be a minute/day/year away. Guess it’s my baseball background. I could be shut out in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and two strikes … I’m still swinging for the fences.