I never really knew how to talk about this shit without sounding either too serious or like some Hallmark movie written by a guy that drinks wine coolers and says “live laugh love” unironically. So fuck it, here it is raw.
A lot of us eventually hit one of those moments in life you absolutely do not want to do. You know it’s coming. You know somebody has to handle it. You sit there bargaining with the universe like, “Please don’t let this be my problem tonight.” Then life looks directly at you and says, “Nah buddy, tag, you’re it.”
So I’m over at my friend’s house Friday night. He’s disabled. His wife takes amazing care of him. Honestly one of the best couples I know. Real relationship type people. Not fake Instagram soulmate bullshit where couples hold hands for pictures then secretly hate each other by Tuesday.
We’re all kid free for the weekend. Relaxing. Watching movies. Everybody’s feeling good. We each ate brownies earlier too, and not the church fundraiser kind. About 50mg in, life starts getting real weird.
They ordered food from this one place. I ordered from somewhere else. Thank God. That decision may have saved my asshole and my soul simultaneously.
At first you hear this little gurgle from him.
Then another gurgle from his wife.
I’m sitting there high as giraffe balls staring at both of them like a confused raccoon wondering why everybody suddenly looks pale and sweaty.
Then all hell breaks loose.
His wife starts losing feeling in her arms and legs. She’s turning white. Blood pressure is all over the place. So now I’m on the phone with 911 trying to sound sober enough that they don’t think I’m calling from a pirate ship.
Meanwhile my disabled buddy is absolutely destroying himself in the chair.
Not a fart.
Not an “oops.”
I’m talking full biological warfare.
So there I am standing in this moment where life gives you two choices.
Option one, be selfish and pretend you don’t see it.
Option two, glove up and become the friend you hope somebody would be for you one day.
And buddy… I gloved the fuck up.
I did not want to do it. There is nothing in college that prepares you for cleaning shit off your friend’s hairy balls while trying not to gag and rethink every life decision that got you to that exact moment.
Movies lied to us.
Friendship in your 20s is beer pong and road trips.
Friendship in your 50s is, “Hold still Gary, there’s poop under your ass cheek.”
At one point I actually yelled, “Jesus Christ, shave your fucking balls,” because I swear to God it looked like somebody dropped peanut butter into a Brillo pad.
The worst part is you realize how fast life changes.
One day you’re young talking about girls and music and dumb shit.
Next thing you know you’re standing in a bathroom high as hell helping your disabled friend not sit in his own crap while paramedics check on his wife in the other room.
And honestly?
That’s love.
Not the fake internet kind.
Not the “relationship goals” bullshit people post while cheating on each other emotionally every weekend.
Real love is finding somebody willing to clean the shit off your ass when you’re old, broken, ugly, sick, or scared.
That’s the person you keep.
That’s the person you marry.
That’s the person you fight for.
Because life gets real ugly eventually for all of us. Every single one of us ends up needing help at some point. Age humbles everybody. Your muscles go. Your memory goes. Something stops working. Sometimes everything stops working.
People act like love is butterflies and date nights.
No.
Love is somebody staying when life becomes inconvenient.
Love is somebody helping you keep your dignity when your body betrays you.
Love is your friend quietly cleaning you up without making you feel less human afterward.
We laughed about it later because honestly what else are you gonna do? Sit around and cry about hairy shit balls and emergency diarrhea brownies?
But it stuck with me.
Literally and emotionally.
I went home realizing something that hit me harder than the brownie ever did.
All of us want somebody who loves us at our best.
The real question is who’s willing to stay for the worst.
Because eventually every relationship becomes less about looking sexy and more about loyalty, sacrifice, patience, and occasionally helping somebody wipe their ass after bad takeout.
That’s romance after 40, baby.
Nobody puts that on Valentine’s Day cards.
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