Do you remember the character, Spaulding, in the 1980 cult golf classic movie Caddyshack? He was the consummate spoiled rich kid. Vacuous, sloppy, self-absorbed, and overweight.
He asked his grandfather, a WASPish judge brilliantly portrayed by Ted Knight, at a country club dinner if he was going to eat his fat.
Completely aside from the potentially delectable picture this paints, whenever I come across a man looking for a side chick, or another “open minded polyamorous adventurer” wanting to find another beneficiary of his many talents, I think of Spaulding: the fat kid that just can’t tear himself away from the buffet.
I have been in unhappy relationships. I have also been single for four years because I know what I want. And although I am open minded and sexually liberal enough to make you never want me to meet your parents, the Spauldings in my life are starting to give me a bitter aftertaste.
You want some carefree no-strings-attached sex, or to continually experience the thrill of the chase and then go home to your comfortable double income home in suburbia to sleep beside your (insert ubiquitous adjective here: tired, understanding, oblivious, adventurous, forgiving, sexless) wife who is always there to hear about your day, pay half the bills, share the worries of parenthood or unemployment or asshole parents with you.
Cake eaters, every one of you. Let me tell you what it’s like to be intellectually honest and willing to take a risk to find happiness.
You’re alone 85% of the time you’re not at work. You can’t afford the lifestyle you left. You might even be fighting your ex for child support, or emotionally abused by an ex or your parents, the closest people in your life. All your married friends suddenly find your singleness awkward and inconvenient, and it’s not like they ever go out anymore anyway. You find a group of “single” friends at a local pub, or a support group, or a team or club. You don’t have anything in common except your marital status and maybe a brand of bourbon.
And occasionally, like once in a blue moon, you meet someone that is worth either a. Dating or b. Dragging home for a night (not both. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy).
And briefly you enjoy some physical or emotional intimacy, but it is transitory. You don’t quite click, or the sex is laughably bad, and you continue to watch The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt and do your dishes every evening before you cuddle up in bed with the dog you swore you would never allow onto the furniture.
But you stay single. You don’t settle. You don’t just date someone so you can have someone to listen to you vent about your bad day, wipe your tears away when the next financial/ emotional/ family crisis dawns, or so you have someone to help rake leaves or clean gutters or load the snowblower into your tiny car for a tune up, or a warm spot in the bed that’s made by a human.
Oh wait. No that’s what I do while you cake eaters have your cake and eat it too.
No, Spaulding, I’m not going to eat my fat. It’s all yours. I hope you choke on it like Momma Cass.