Dear Dick, a new feature

Two friends are getting married not long after TWIL and I. The groom-to-be and I don't get to talk often. He lives on the other side of the Charles River, and as Bostonians know, you're on one side or the other. It could be trolls or fear of Rte. 128, but traveling Over There doesn't happen often.

Dick - not his real name - has not asked me for advice. His loss. Or is it? In a periodic feature of ...Bliss, I'll tell Dick what he can expect. Not the concrete and incredible - yes, you pay for creamers and sugar bowls separately when you hire a caterer - but the shifting hopes and anxieties of the groom-to-be. Dick may not need my advice. But if he were me, he would.

Dear Dick,

The same way biology played an important role in noticing and choosing Kelly - not her real name - it will surprise you for the balance of your engagement.

An example. "Fuck you" becomes a term of endearment. Something deep inside you has begun to recognize that all the measurement scales have been reset. You'll be together forever. A long time. You no longer feel it's important to exercise caution in romantic communication. Go ahead and say it. "Tomorrow" has become a kind of renewable resource. Sure, you'll run out eventually. But it seems so far away that you can leave that problem to your grandchildren. It is a testimony to the "intelligence" of evolution that biology intervenes here. Because "Fuck You" in line at the game will lead to a ride in an ambulance. But at home, with the woman you love, that line has in fact become a term of endearment. There are two common adaptive responses.

One. "Fuck you too," she says, with a smile. The smile that means, "I know you're not mad. And why worry? There's always tomorrow."

Two. The wink. The sly exit from the room. These are signals that mean she's taken you literally. And you remember just one of the reasons you loved this woman in the first place.

From that point on, you don't need my advice. Trust the biology.

As you were,
John