Pre’s Year of Relentless Effort: Marriage is a Sham!
In early January 2012, I sat down with some friends to watch the BCS College Football National Championship game and spent the first two quarters bitching about the lamest New Year’s Eve on record. In conversation, we drew the conclusion that only weddings give New Year’s Eve any real chance of being a decent night out.
So, between the third and fourth quarter of the game, it was bestowed upon me to embark on a twelve month quest to find a bride to marry on New Years Eve 2012 and redeem what is constantly the most underwhelming night of the year.
A modern day challenge, for a modern day man.
Easier said than done. Getting me off the couch, away from ESPN and out of the apartment would prove to be a challenge within the challenge.
Hence, my year of Relentless Effort – one man’s quest to find a wife whilst consuming a disproportionate amount of sport over a twelve month period was born.
Throughout 2012, via this column on The Flack, I have tried to keep you abreast of my year of Relentless Effort and the caravan of courage it sent me on – minus the Ewoks.
In the quest to find future Mrs Prefontaine, I did double dates, blind dates, speed dates and back-to-back-to-back dates.
I dated Germans, Scots, English, Americans, Koreans, nannies, lawyers, unionists, accountants, ex-girlfriends, teachers and even a girl from Adelaide!
I took Relentless Efforts across the Pacific and if that wasn’t enough, then across the Atlantic.
I got offered a Devil’s Threesome in New York, kissed a Yankees fan in Philly and once again got donuts in Glasgow.
By the end, I was exhausted from all this Relentless Effort.
I had given my all.
But for all of my relentless effort, I failed in my quest to find a bride for the New Year’s Eve wedding.
Allow me to digress a moment to explain why this ended the way it did. Stay with me.
In 2002, a friend and I ventured into the old Honkey Tonks club in Melbourne’s AC/CD Lane at 2 in the am after a long day of drinking. Feeling very rock star, we decided that now was the time to enter the world of recreational drugs for the first time.
Not being experts at chasing, we practically asked every punter in the bar if they had any drugs to sell. We came up empty handed.
Not because the place was clean, somehow I doubt it going by the shithouse drum and bass music everyone was dancing to, but because most of the customers in the club that night were now convinced we were narcs.
At the end of the evening when he headed for the door, I turned back to the club and informed Melbourne’s drug scene that this was your one and only chance to get me to partake in your little subculture.
In some ways, now that the 2012 Year of Relentless Effort is over, it’s time to declare to the single women of Australia, you’ve now missed out on your one and only chance to marry yours truly.
I’m not off the market, but I’m no longer the marrying type. It’s a sham.
Being the youngest of seven in my family, and the only one not married, the pressure to get married by family members is always there, like Sean Denham’s tag on Diesel in the 93 Grand Final.
Over the break, one of my nieces got engaged. I was rapt for her, and for myself. Now the attention has moved to the next generation.
I’m off the hook. Or so I thought.
Days after the great news I got a phone call from my Mum asking, “Pre when are you gonna settle down?”
“Never”, I replied.
“Well Son, you’ll just end up old, miserable and alone,” she pined.
To which I replied, “Mum, never, I have ESPN.”
If there is one thing that this year of Relentless Effort has taught me, is not to take single life for granted.
Hollywood with all there Rom Coms, condition us to think that we need to end up with someone. To that I say – bollocks.
The joys of bachelorhood are too great to give up.
In the words of Ed Burns’s character Barry in The Brothers McMullan: “the grass is always greener… or taller… or blonder… or bigger tits!”
So this is a call to arms to all the single men and women in their thirties – embrace your singledom. Don’t let your married friends drag you down to their existence.
Do you know what happens when you get married?
You have to get up, like fifty times a night to feed the baby.
You stay in on a Friday night to watch the latest Rom-Com starring Jennifer Anniston and Paul Rudd.
Worst still, you go antiquing in Armadale on a Sunday afternoons!
Whilst I failed in my quest to find a wife in twelve months, I hold no regrets on the year 2012.
Where dating failed, sport was the winner.
I watched Celtic run away with the league as our former rivals went out of existence.
An Avery Bradley-less Boston Celtics were 12 minutes away from upsetting LeBron and a shot at Banner 18.
I travelled to Fenway Park and to Yankee Stadium to watch my Red Sox win games. The only ray of sunlight in a dark, dark season.
I flew across the drink to see Celtic lift the league flag on a new season and progress in the Champions League.
Upon returning home, the Patriots continued to be inspired by Bill and Tom, and the Fighting Irish went undefeated in the regular season – restoring pride to the University of Notre Dame and its football program.
Could I have travelled the globe following my teams and spending hours in front of the tube if I was married or in a serious relationship?
Relationship Pre is dead.
Long live Independent Pre!
In 2013, I’ve hung up my Relentless Effort jacket and have returned to my one man apartment on my Balcony of Freedom, in which I plan to microwave some pop-corn, pour myself a large single malt and watch a great deal of sport and stolen HBO series off the internet.
Sure I’ll come down from the sixty seventh floor of my building now and then to visit you people, but my days of effort, relentless or not, are over.
In the words of that great kilt and bandana wearing bard, Axel Rose – “sometimes you need sometime, on your own.”
Follow Prefontaine on twitter here or read about his year of Relentless Effort in all its glory: