It's not that I want to leave him: no, he's a great guy and I'm crazy about him. What bothers me is that I have no choice in the event things go south.
It's not the marriage vows: they're easily reversible. You send a few thousand dollars to a lawyer and a week later you're downing martinis at The Tipsy Turnip again. When we got married, though, a well-meaning friend gave us a bond I hadn't anticipated and now there's absolutely no turning back.
He named a star after us.
You know the bit: the International Star Registry has a list of the billions and billions of stars, and if you send them upwards of $54 they'll let you name one. Any name you want, as long as it's not vulgar or derogatory. I'm not sure how that would happen, but maybe there are people in the world who'd fork over cash just to have something in space called Wendy Is A Real Asshole.
Of course I was excited. Their website has photos of famous folks with stars named after them, though I'm guessing these were freebies given for publicity. There's a photo of Princess Di and a copy of a thank-you note from her secretary. It's gracious rather than grateful: "The princess was most interested" seems like the opposite end of "the princess shit her ballgown" scale.
As part of the package, we got a framable parchment with the star's coordinates, though I'm not quite sure what to do with them. I typed them into Google and they're clueless. There's no walk to a bus to a train to a plane to a rocket ship. There's no "A taxi would be faster, ya cheapskate!" Of course there's no street diagram with that constantly-spinning arrow saying, "Your star is in front of you. No, it's behind you! No, it's in front of you again!"
Our star wasn't in any of the big constellations, but that didn't bother me. The constellations are just gimmicky things created by ordinary people, like astronomical connect-the-dots. Some bored soul staring upwards said, "Hey, that string of stars looks like a topless chick. I think I'll call them 'Virgo.'" Though I'm not bored or astronomical, I decided to make a constellation too, and now our star is in the Bowlegged Toad. Modestly, I didn't make it the centerpiece of the Toad, instead just sticking it on the side of his glasses. I still haven't written up the characteristics of people born under this sign though "soporific" and "oleaginous" are safe bets.
Over the months, though, my glee at having a place in eternity turned into unease. There was a responsibility that came with the star that went unmentioned on the website. They don't let you rename your star so your choice is as permanent as a tattoo. Sure, maybe I Love Britney is a cool name right now, but how about in a hundred years? Spaceships are going to fly by and passengers are going to think, "I wonder if this 'Britney' was an important statesman, or at least danced in her own music videos." What was once flattering is suddenly going to be sad.
While we're together, then, everything is terrific. People can look up and go, "Wow, Roman & Dieter 4Eva looks really good tonight. Its luminosity and magnitude are impressive for a red dwarf. They must be one amazing couple to have a giant exploding ball of gas named after them." But what happens when it's not happily ever after? People criticize heterosexuals for having kids and then getting divorced: how would they feel about two guys with a billion-megaton ball of gas? We'd be that bad role model, with the star that forever blared, "You know those gays just can't commit."
And how about all those wonderful people who believe in eternal love? Picture NASA sending a rocket to Mars:
SCIENTIST: Okay, guys, I want you to turn right at Alpha Centauri, then make a hard left when you get to Roman & Dieter 4Eva -- shit, they broke up, didn't they? [SNIFFLES] I knew this was gonna happen. Can somebody else take over please?
Or imagine a college Astronomy class:
PROFESSOR: Here, just left of Roman & Dieter 4Eva, is a nascent black hole that --
STUDENT: Professor, did you know that Roman and Dieter aren't together any more?
PROFESSOR: No, I did not know that. [PAUSE] Sorry, kids, I got something in my eye. Class is dismissed.
I picture jets full of students seeing our star on their way to Spring Break on Jupiter. "Did you know Roman and Dieter separated?" someone will announce.
"NO!" someone else will gasp. "Nuh-uh. NUH-UH! Nuh-uh, nuh-uh, NUH-UH!!! [PAUSE] Are there any chips left?"
Of course, I have to look on the bright side. We're still a happy couple, and if we knew how Star Coordinates worked we'd probably gaze up at our star with pride. And besides, there are far worse gifts. For instance, at the zoo they let you adopt animals, and you can even adopt an animal for a friend. It's one thing to stay together for an astronomical body but another to find room for an ocelot.
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