The men we will become.

When I am at work I go to lunch with two of the higher-ups.  I do this often; not because I want to pull rank, or really care about the conversation to be had (it's mostly engineering and marketing jargon beyond my understanding), but simply because they are most often the first to ask.  "Ready for lunch?"  Sometimes I initiate this, but often I am left waiting.  This is frustrating because they are on salary, and I am paid hourly.  Sometimes I have to leave a task half finished because they walk on out the door.  

We're in line at a fast food joint.  I don't eat red meat, but sometimes I can stomach a barbeque sandwich for a day.  A crowd of southern good-ol'-boys walk in, and I am immediately filled with contempt and subsequent guilt over my immediate reaction.  

I am not sure what I hate more about the people.  Is is the uniformity?  The clothing?  The large oxford with short khakis?  The lack of self-respect?  The ignorant racism (as opposed to well-read racism)?  The drinking?  The date rape?  The arrogance?  The easy jobs?  

I get lost in it, which is not surprising, only because anger is not a fixed thing.  It passes, along with reason, like a puff of mud in a river stream.  It is nothing.  

I remember our similarities, these dudes and I.  I remember that my parents wanted me to be like them.  I wonder if they are disappointed that our differences outnumber our similarities.  

Conversation is predictable;   inside jokes about old employers, new products, Rush, the damn Chinese.  Also predictable is the eventual notice of the non-contributing third party.  

One strikes in to me "Still getting married in August?"

"October."  

"Yeah, October.  That still happening?"

The other takes his cue.

"Married?  Why would you do a thing like that?"

I am not sure if this is a real question.  

I have been asked this as a real question before.  Fortunately I see the antagonistic grin arch his face before I have time to answer with any sincerity.  

I shake my head, hoping the attention will pass from me.

The second man is now quoting a joke, by a woman whom he points out is "reasonably attractive," concerning divorce.  

This is not funny to me.  

Perhaps it is because sometimes I am moody.  Sometimes I am also too literal, while others I am not literal enough.  But as an engaged man, divorce is not funny to me.  

It's almost like the song by Pedro the Lion.  I don't want divorce to be an option.  But getting married these days, you have to admit that the numbers are stacked against you.  

My parents are not divorced.  Making wedding guest lists shows you just how many people you know, to some comfortable degree of acquaintance, so it means something when I say that only a handful are also in this category.  

Divorce is not an option for me.  I hear lots of "it was the best thing to do in our situation," and while I can appreciate that sentiment to a limited extent, I never want to have to say that myself.  It scares me, the way death scares someone going under the knife.  The whole point is to NOT die; but in tackling the procedure, you have to admit you come a bit closer to death before you can get away from it.  

What bothers me most about this whole ordeal is knowing that if my future makes me into one of these men, I fear divorce would look a bit more like an option to my wife.  And I would not be able to blame her.  

I think it is natural to fear the men we will become.  

But it's in those moments, when you've time-travelled to meet your older-self and hate what you see, that you travel back and create your own alternate timeline.  

It's sort of a hopeful thing eating with people you don't want to be with.

Then I want to rescue them.

Then I want to throw their food in the floor, and give them a piece of my mind (whatever that means).

Then I want to show them the err of their ways.

Then I want to show them how wonderfully unselfish I am.

We drive back to the office.  These two men will close their eyes in the parking lot, waving to and fro to the mystic beats of Neil Peart, while I escape back into the warehouse.  

I have a friend who says that if any two people could trade lives, even with some clear improvement, that no one would take it.  

Sometimes that is good to hear.