Mortgages and margaritas, coffee and confusion

Fourth of July, a day when most Americans feel more American and more connected to their fellow countrymen. A Wal-Mart co-opted definition of pride and freedom fills the yards and streets, each person creative in their conformity. Beyond doing it to obey my rule of avoiding idiots with sticks of fire, I stay in on the Fourth because it's just another reminder that I'm not one.

Wedding season and summer vacations mean the city is overrun with tourists and brides... and wanna-be brides. In my generation, at least way back in the day, the worst you could do was to be a wanna-be or, god forbid, a poser. But here we are. Country girls in their discount dresses and nude hose and strappy sandals gawking at the buildings, carrying shopping bags of things available in most strip malls across the land. Suburban dads in their wife-purchased outfits, kids in tow, smiling at me in an overly intimate way. Everyone contemplating life on the other side, trial runs, free samples. A belief that the better life, meaning almost always the more 'fun' one or the easier one, is just a decision away. A one-step solution.

The fascination with this magical, all-solving step and it's belief to be the almighty one makes it seem all the more dangerous - alluring to ponder, but daunting to really consider. Like men who describe women as exotic, it's a flirtation around the idea of something being attractive because it isn't understood. When it becomes understood it's... flawed, not attractive.

Alters and thresholds provide the same myths and legends. Happily ever after, riding off into the sunset. One decision into another, better - and in this case - safer life. Find someone to provide. Be provided for. Marriage isn't trite or necessarily flawed, but most people seem to plan to be brides and grooms more than husbands and wives. Perfect linens and flowers and ribbons, music and processional, standard toasts and poses. A perfect day for the perfect beginning. Thousands of dollars for the proper send off into Perfectville.

I've been to a few parties recently where new 30-somethings (meaning 30 year olds) stand around with their wedding bands or wedding plans taking about their condos, drinking from plastic cups and telling band camp stories. It's the Quarter Life Purgatory between starting the career and starting the family - jumping from one well traveled track to the next. These gatherings are like college parties, those thrown in the time of your life when you feel you are biding time until the Next Big Thing happens to you.

Outside of these Purgatory Parties, the rest of us huddle over small coffeehouse tables, in hushed but impassioned conversations about meanings and journeys and confusion. Those of us unwilling to jump on the same train, running on the same old track, duck into the dank and dirty train station cafe and question not just the destination, but the best mode to get wherever we want 'there' to be.