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My Marriage Was Just Fine, so We Broke Up
Nothing was wrong, but it wasn’t worth saving, either
Ironically, my future husband and I officially became official before a trip to the hospital, thanks to a frat house party two towns away, that at least no one went to jail for, as far as I know. I was scheduled to have knee surgery the following morning, and when my roommates stumbled out the door in too-high heels and too-short skirts for a “little get together,” swearing up and down they’d be home in the morning to take me to surgery, I knew I needed a backup plan.
The cute baseball player from across the street and I had been hanging out for a few months by then, and when he offered to take me I knew he wasn’t just a good option — always reliable and responsible — but he was probably the only person on campus on a Friday night still sober enough to be trusted to make the early morning call time. We then agreed that people you were “just hanging out with” didn’t escort each other to surgeries, and that we should probably embrace some new titles.
Apparently it was a bit of a shock when the nurse came into the waiting room asking for “Sarah’s neighbor” to let him know I was awake, but who can blame me for not wanting to use the term for the first time on a hospital intake form?
