This is the land of married people. You do not belong here. Look away, you creepy creep

Let the record show that I tried.

I sent the mazel tov text with the requisite number of exclamation points, notified all the necessary people, endured all the succeeding squeal sessions (“OH. EM. GEEEEEEE! For realsies?”) with all the equanimity I could muster. I even went to Target and spent 20 minutes comparing tiny, nearly identical rompers, packaged the best one nicely, wrote a heartfelt note that pulled my heart from my chest, and left it by the door — the bag and the bleeding heart.

I did try. I did.

I attempt to convince myself of this as I sit in my car after delivering the gift. The lot is crammed with Camrys and Civics, themselves crammed with tallis bags and car seats. The apartment complex, in turn, is crammed with the owners of the cars and bags and seats; I can see them through the lighted windows, eating dinner and reading stories and falling asleep.

I watch them, feeling distinctly weird and outsider-ish. This is the land of married people. You do not belong here. Look away, you creepy creep.

I can’t look away. There’s a kind of halo around those windows, even the ones in which the baby is obviously screaming or the husband is distracted or the wife is stressed. I know the halo is the product of my own wishful thinking, that marriage is not a panacea, that real life is full of real problems. I got my money’s worth in seminary, and I know enough human beings to see these things are true.