Two nights ago, over a sink full of dishes, The Husband announced that a co-worker of his had planned a trip to Las Vegas for the group. "The group" consisting of the five people that work together in his office.
And I immediately announced, "I'm not going!"
Because the sad truth is that this woman planning the trip? Yeah. I can't handle being in the same room with her for more than five minutes. No, for more than one minute. No, just the thought of being in the same room as her for even a moment make me want to toss myself out the nearest window and pray it's at least a few floors up.
She's very loud and very IN YOUR FACE and incredibly negative, always looking for someone to hold responsible for all that's wrong with her life. And when I'm around her I can feel all of the positive energy (of which I don't have much, I admit) being sucked from my very being until it takes everything I can possibly muster to prevent myself from melting into a puddle of soggy tears and depression.
So, when I announced my disinterest in going along on this overnight adventure, The Husband wasn't exactly surprised. But then he asked, "How would you feel if I go?"
My reasons for immediately exclaiming my uneasiness at the concept were not the ones you might think. They have very little to do with recent events and much more to do with past events. My own past events.
Two or three years ago, I became friends with three women I worked with. Three women with whom I had very little in common. They liked to shop and wear make-up and go dancing. They had great clothes, fantastic shoes, matching purses. Their hair was always perfect. I'm still not exactly sure how I fit in.
Me? I'd gladly never step foot in another clothing store ever again. I don't wear make-up (I know) and I hate to brush my hair. I own exactly two purses, both of which cost under $75. My shoes consist of sneakers, one pair of flip-flops that I try to avoid wearing, and a pair of Uggs. And my dancing? Or what I call "dancing?" Not pretty. Which is why I don't do it.
But somehow, the four of us became friends and spent a lot of time together for several months. We'd go to dinner, hit the bars... or sometimes gather at someone's apartment, cook, drink, and watch movies.
Harmless, right? Well, what I haven't told you is that the main difference between us was the fact that I was married and they weren't. And when we'd get together, I wouldn't come home until four or five in the morning.
I wish I could say that it quickly occurred to me that this wasn't exactly appropriate behavior for a married woman, but, sadly, the realization didn't sink in until some time after our friendship fizzled. Since then, it has become glaringly obvious just how negative an impact it had on me and my marriage.
Those single girls proved to be a very powerful influence. I didn't want to be at home. I wanted to be out. With my friends. I wanted to be single. At least, that's what I thought I wanted at the time. And, had it continued, I'm sure it wouldn't have been long before I got just that... and been incredibly sorry for it.
Don't get me wrong. I know that married people can have single friends. But I am a firm believer that a married person shouldn't surround themselves with only single friends. And on this trip to Las Vegas? Everyone else is single.