I WONDER how many thirty or forty-something married people have looked across the great social divide, seen
the lights and heard the laughter on a Saturday
night, and pondered just how green the grass is over there.
Well, as one who has been comfortably coupled, and now not so through an evil twist of fate, I’m here to tell
you that green you see is not grass. It’s a jungle.
And it’s populated by all manner of creatures.
Some are hunters, some are prey, some just passing through.
There is a ritual to Saturday night for the restless, the abandoned and the temporarily unspoken for. It often
starts with dinner and drinks with married and coupled friends. How the paired-off love to laugh at tales of the
dark. They listen to stories that, from their cosy viewpoint seem vibrant and exciting.
And, like any great tale, they hope to be thrilled by the journey but ultimately be reassured by the happy ending.
But there isn’t a happy ending, at least not yet.
At some point, many of those who are paired remember that they are day people who live in the light, and they head home together leaving the rest to the night.
Then the game commences for real.
I don’t know exactly when medium-sized cities like Ballarat went in my mind from a huge place full of new things to explore to being so small.
Because for single blokes in a certain age range, and presumably for unattached women of a similar vintage, the ‘‘community’’ is remarkably tiny.
The regulars know each other by sight, if not always by name.
And, through contact both direct and indirect, they get to know all about the others, just like those folk who live
in a tiny village.
Ordering at the bar there is separated-with two-kids and her best friend, one-boy-never-married.
They are checking out who might be new in the place.
Playing pool is divorced-sees-daughter-once-afort night
who, with his good mate married-but-that-wouldn’t-stop-
me, is thrashing a pair of young blokes with shots that look like flukes but repeated success suggests they
aren’t.
But the pool game is nothing more than a distraction.
Then there is commitment-phobia chatting up biological-clock-gone-mad, and great-catch-too-shy being largely ignored by chose-poorly-first-time-no-kids-t hank-God. Most folk are genuine. They don’t tend to do as well as
those who aren’t because, presumably, hunting is a skill that takes practice.
‘‘He’s nothing but a player,’’ says one lady to her cohort about a smart-looking guy across the room. He sees them and they both smile and wave him over. He wanders over and they start talking about the week.
Everyone has a story.
Later there may be dancing, or deep conversations, and
maybe, who knows?
‘‘Married’’ doesn’t always last for ever, but neither does ‘‘single’’.
Of course, all this is happening amidst hundreds of younger party-goers. Most of the thirty-somethings were
like them once. It started out like Beverly Hills 90210, then merged into Melrose Place and, at some point became Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives.
But there is a great reason they are all still here. Because
ultimately, it remains cracking good fun.
There’s always the chance to be surprised and, there’s that carrot at the end of ‘‘happily ever after’’ even for the most cynical of us.
And like any good game, you can’t win if you aren’t willing to play.
You know I’m right about this.
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