Chris Kelly

Much like the fact that later today I will be watching “Big Brother” and eating pizza by the slice in my underwear, the eventual legalization of gay marriage is a foregone conclusion.

Social conservatives and proponents of “the sanctity of traditional marriage” constantly worry about the national nightmare that will rain down on America should homosexuals be allowed to marry. They ask, What about the children? What about tradition? What about the very foundations of this country?

These are all valid concerns, and I can say that as the child of a heterosexual marriage myself, I want to make sure that just like me, all children across this great land feel oddly abandoned by their heterosexual father well into their twenties, then look him up on the internet one day, show up to his house without warning while he’s not home, and then break into it to look at pictures of his new daughter - the one he had with his second wife, who he also divorced.

So listen, social conservatives, I know you’re worried I’m not gonna live up to the classic American values a lot of you straight people have had for generations. You’re thinking to yourself: but what if he doesn’t throw his babies off a bridge? There’s no guarantee he won’t chop up his husband into a bunch of tiny pieces with an electric jigsaw! God, oh god, what if he doesn’t kill his entire family with a hammer?

And you would be right to be worried, because I probably won’t do any of those things. Especially the hammer one, because holy fucking shit. So, People Afraid Of Gay Marriage, I would like to tell you what you should be afraid of. I want to describe to you what my ideal marriage would be, and if you’re still afraid, fair enough:

So my husband’s a lawyer. Or a doctor. Or an architect. And he’s a chef on the side. It’s not his career, it’s more of a hobby. And he’s super good at it, even though he won’t admit it. He doesn’t like to brag about himself; he’s not the type. And I love that about him, but it’s also a little annoying because I believe in him, so why won’t he?

So let’s say it’s a Thursday night like tonight. I get home super late because we’re on deadline at the TV show I created and head-write for. (It’s an hour-long, dark comedy.) I’m driving home — sidenote: I had to move to LA because that’s where the show films, though my heart (and second home, which is a loft) will always be in New York—and I’m excited to see my husband. His name is Jack. That wasn’t his name when we met, but he knows I love it, so he changed it to Jack in the spring as an anniversary gift to me. He’s. The. Sweetest.

So I get home and I walk upstairs really quietly in case Jack and the baby are asleep. There’s only three stairs, so it’s not that hard. We don’t have a two-story house; it’s just a split-level, so it’s like a one-story but several rooms are a couple stairs up or down from each other. I get to the bedroom, and Jack has fallen asleep in bed with law books (or medical books, or architecture books) all around him, half-opened. Lines are highlighted here and there because that’s what you do when you’re studying. It reminds me I was gonna bring some extra high-lighters home from work because his have been drying out and I get them free because of that TV show I created and head-write for. But I forgot!

Jack’s always been the thoughtful one in the relationship. I love him so.

I notice the baby’s asleep beside him in our bed. I don’t know what her name is yet. I kind of think it will be Grace, but then that means her name is Grace Kelly, which is sort of annoying, but I might be okay with it. I’ll have to get back to you on that. She’s four months old and she’s alseep on her back. I pick her up and carry her to her crib and then crawl into bed. I look at my lawyer (alts: doctor, architect) husband, kiss him on the forehead, and as I’m closing some of his books for him, he wakes up a little and mutters “I love you” and something about there being a cheesecake in the kitchen because he was “practicing making desserts” tonight. But right before giving me a quick kiss and falling asleep, he says, “it’s probably not very good though”.

Ugh, that Jack! We have gotta get that confidence up about his chef skills! That raspberry thing he made last night was so good and I’m not just saying that because he gave me an eleven hour back massage right after. Well, at least he’s confident about a lot of other things, which he should be because he’s brilliant, he’s one inch taller than me, he looks like the guy next door but with darker features, and he speaks French.

Anyway, then I roll over, and right as I’m about to fall asleep, I think to myself, “We should really paint that wall.”

And that is what I want my marriage to be like. It might sound boring to you—and hell, maybe it won’t work out so perfectly in reality. Maybe I’ll name my baby Grace and then she’ll end up fat and it will look like we picked her name ironically. Maybe we never will paint that wall, and my cute little dissatisfaction with it’s color will be just a tiny symbol of my constantly dissatisfied personality, and things will just get worse and worse until I find a million little things wrong with my husband and he can’t take the stress and then he kills me in my sleep with a hammer. Or maybe one day, he’ll say that classic line that is bound to happen to me in my life: “Are you married to ME? Or your WORK?!?!” And I’ll feel terrible but also I’ll be trying not to laugh because that’s such a cliche thing to say. But Jack, being the guy that he is, will hear how silly he sounded saying that line too, and then he’ll start laughing, and next thing you know we’re fucking in one of our grottos.

Anyway, the point is: I think my marriage could be pretty great, if this country would let me have one. But if it sucks, like so many end up doing, it will not be a National Nightmare. It will just be a Personal Nightmare. And shouldn’t we all, as Americans, have the right to enter into our own Personal Nightmare if we want to?

Thank you,
Chris Kelly