Many of you have recently inquired as to whether I plan to attend the upcoming nuptials of Noah Calhoun and my ex-fiancée, Allie Hamilton. After much consideration, I have decided to decline the invitation.
When Allie confessed she had fallen back in love with her childhood sweetheart during a recent excursion to Seabrook, the first thing I did was weigh my options. The way I saw it, I had three choices for handling this Calhoun kid: I could shoot him, I could kick the crap out of him, or I could hop onto Twitter and incite an insurrection on his newly refurbished lakeside house.
However, I am nothing if not a gentleman, so while I totally disagree with the outcome of our engagement, and the facts bear me out, I ultimately agreed to an orderly transition of fiancés.
Still, I draw the line at attending their wedding, as it would signify to guests that I have accepted the outcome of this fight for Allie’s love. And the fact is, I will never, ever concede.
After all, why should I? We were getting ready for a big ol’ Southern celebration, picking out bourbon and sampling shrimp and grit hor d’oeuvres, when all of a sudden, the wedding was called off. And it’s not right, because frankly, I won the girl.
I mean, does it not seem suspicious to anyone else that my future mother-in-law just so happened to discover 365 love letters hiding in a drawer mere weeks after Allie had accepted my proposal? How do we even know they weren’t written by dead people? I have a successful career as some type of lawyer, so trust me, I know fraud when I see it.
For this reason, I had no choice but to call the Hamiltons right up, and ask them to find some extra love letters written by yours truly, in order to swing the relationship in my favor.
“So what are we going to do here, folks?” I asked, when Mrs. Hamilton picked up the phone. “I only need 366 letters, which is one more than that local yokel wrote. Give me a break.”
I know for a fact that Mrs. Hamilton would rather wed her daughter to a syphilis-infected horse than Noah Calhoun, so you can imagine my surprise when she revealed herself to be an unlikely traitor. She claimed she wasn’t happy with the outcome either, but as Allie’s mother, she has to respect her daughter’s wishes, no matter how disappointing and financially misguided they might be.
Once the initial shock wore off, I realized that I should have seen this coming. After all, I did once tell Allie that she shouldn’t marry me, as it would signify the end of a lifelong battle of defiance against her parents. I just never dreamed she would take my comments so literally.
In any case, I hope Allie is happy with her decision to give up her designer wardrobe and enviable social life for a penniless Democrat who has nothing to offer her but country flapjacks and cringeworthy purple prose. I understand that she has made her choice. But it doesn’t mean that I have to accept it.
Because at the end of the day, I know the truth. I won Allie Hamilton’s heart by a landslide. It wasn’t even close.
Lindsay Hameroff is a humor writer and satirist. She lives in Harrisburg, PA with her husband and two kids. Her work has been published in Little Old Lady Comedy, Slackjaw, Points in Case, Frazzled, and more. In her spare time, she can be found reading, cooking, wrangling children, or fantasizing about making brisket for Harry Styles. You can find her on Twitter @LindsayHameroff.