I am struck by the feeling, for the second time in my life, that everyone around me is getting married. I’ve been through this wave once before, when one of the people about to get married was me. You know how that turned out; I appear to be in a bit less danger this time.

My friend MDS called the other day. MDS - which is not some writerly pseudonym; that’s actually what we call him - is one of the few geniuses I’ve ever met, a mad poet with wild, intense eyes, unruly and sprawling long black hair and a mind that never met a problem it couldn’t deconstruct, dissolve and destroy within 10 to 15 seconds.

In college, I realized that MDS was the smartest person I’d ever met, and that thought hasn’t faded in the slightest. He was also crazed; he once, after a particularly late evening of both legal and illegal revelry, began speaking fluent Spanish to me, even though he, in fact, didn’t actually speak anything but English.

He was my Neal Cassady, a blisteringly alive muse who always had a beautifully different take on everything I mindlessly watched pass by. I hoped I’d chronicle his doings for many years, because if I couldn’t be like MDS, I’d be more than honored to tell others about him. He was a true American original, and I always figured he’d either become president or die a glorious, romantically gruesome death at the age of 25.

MDS was two years behind me in school, and when I graduated and moved to Los Angeles, we talked less often. But we still stayed in relatively close touch, and anytime I made it back to the Midwest, I made sure to visit. It was amazing, really; everyone who had met him since I left treated him as the same strange type of god I always had. He’s the type of guy you’d storm a bunker for, blindfolded and naked, with no weapons. He was born to be a leader of men.

Right before he graduated in May 1999, he met a lovely senior named Sarah, a pillar of the campus community who spent her after-class hours as a volunteer who worked with children suffering from Down’s Syndrome. I met her once, and she was as advertised: sweet, wholesome, almost preposterously nice. I liked her instantly, but I couldn’t help wonder about the long-term prospects. Not that MDS was some kind of jerk. It’s just, well, it seemed the man would be too busy scaling mountains, writing cosmic manifestos and inspiring the masses out of their complacent sloth and into planning a revolution to have time to get too serious.

That said, upon graduation, MDS and Sarah moved to Los Angeles - which I had long since departed - where they both worked as teachers in the Compton school district. I still talked with MDS, but I had plenty going on myself, as you’ve heard enough about already, so correspondence dwindled.

And then he called the other day. Usually, we’ll chat about football, mock people we went to college with for a while, shoot the proverbial shit. But there was no screwing around this time.

“Hey, Will, I got married.” Sarah and MDS had headed to a Vegas chapel, where they tied the knot amidst countless couples in various stages of gestation (which they were not, I hasten to add). Stunned, I congratulated him and then stumbled through various conversation topics, including our amusement at the fact that the mystic MDS was now somebody’s uncle. Then we hung up, and, as I am wont to do, I got to thinking and got to freaking out.

You see, dear readers, something has happened to me recently that I haven’t let you in on, and I apologize.

No, no, no, I’m not getting married; heavens no. My feelings on the idea of someone spending the rest of their life with me were summed up succinctly by a reader last week, who told me, “If I had only read a couple of (your columns), I’d probably be in love with you. But since I slacked off pretty much all day and read them from beginning to end - I’m gonna say let’s just be friends.” That’s me: nice place to visit; wouldn’t want to live there.

Right before I left The New York Times, I, on a particularly odd whim, ripped off a brief and mundane e-mail to the ex-fiancée, with whom I hadn’t had any contact for about, oh, two years. It was quite flaccid, actually; it was just a “hey there, I was working at the Times, I’m not now, writing a lot more now, whaddya say, hey, hey, hope you’re not dead or anything.” No big deal.

Then she wrote back. Because I’m an insolent prick, I’ll reprint the main part (I’ll edit it a bit because she never was a very good writer):

Speaking of relationships, I have some news.

I’m getting married June 24. I’ve been dating (guy’s name; I figure if I’ve never printed her name, it’s not exactly fair to print his) for a couple years. We’ve known each other since the seventh grade. Basically I’m marrying my best friend. I’m very excited. And believe me, this is the right decision. I’ve thought of you and I and everything we went through on occasion lately - well, actually, a lot lately. Very good memories - I hope the same is for you.

There are things I wish could have gone differently, but I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say that I’m glad we didn’t go through with it.

Ahem, cough, gasp, chortle, ack (in that order).

It was a stunning e-mail to receive while otherwise innocently preoccupied with baseball stats, nude Woody Allen pictures and dropcaps. Upon reading it, I printed it out, went downstairs, smoked about 16 cigarettes (at once!) and read it again and again.

Getting married? The ex-fiancée?

Remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally ... (I’ve always hated having to put the ellipses in that title, by the way) when Meg Ryan calls Billy Crystal in tears because she has learned that her former fiancé has gotten married? She says, (I’m paraphrasing because the goddamned IMDB doesn’t have the quote) “It’s not that he didn’t want to get married ... it’s that he didn’t want to get married to me.”

Well, I didn’t feel like that. Because fuck that, I’m not one of those weasels who quotes from When Harry Met Sally .... It’s just strange. I mean, I’ve done everything that my ex-fiancée’s fiancé has. He’s gotten her a ring; done that. He’s helped pick out the invitations and the location; done that. He’s got a happy life with plenty of joy ahead of him; I’ve ... well, I’ve helped pick out invitations.

Please, please, friends, don’t have the impression that I am still hung up on the ex-fiancée. She’s right; if we would have actually gotten married (at 21! Eeek!), she would have murdered me by now. She’d have wanted to go play with the trees and stuff, and I wouldn’t have wanted to leave the computer or the movie theater. I’m glad it didn’t happen.

It’s just, well, that’s pretty much the most tragic thing that has ever happened to me (which, I recognize, makes me somewhat fortunate); my mom once said my life would be divided into what happened before that, and what happened after, and this is one of the more newsworthy things after.

But good luck to her. She deserves it. It’s just that there’s a lot of marriage going around. I’m 24 years old, and I’ve got a bit of whiplash. In Mattoon, if you’re 24 and not married, you’re probably gay (my parents were married at, what, 15?). Here in New York, if you’re 24 and are, you’re probably desperate for that green card. And my idea of marriage has been twisted by the whole situation. I mean, I’ve screwed up so many times with women ... let’s just say I’ll never be a particularly good horse to bet on.

It’s going around, though. Marriage is all around me, and it will be more so as I creep dangerously toward 30. MDS is married, the ex-fiancée is getting married, plenty more exes are on their way. And here I am, muddling through the muck, head in my ass, just trying to figure out if I have any matching socks. Am I supposed to be that grown up already? And am I supposed to be such a moronic cliché? And, seriously, do I have any matching socks?

It’s not that I’m opposed to marriage; jeez, though, does it have to involve me? I’ve learned that lesson, though a little too late.

But more power to them. Let ‘em have their happiness, MDS and the ex-fiancée. I’ll just sit here, alone on a dark Friday night, tapping my thoughts into a computer that doesn’t smile, happy to be alone, alone in my own head. It’s not very comfortable in here, but it certainly is roomy.

*BT*

Life as a Loser runs every week. Join the Life as a Loser discussion group at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/onecrappycolumnist.