When it started getting dark, and that most of the people had left, and that we were done grilling outside, and that it started getting colder, we went to someone's place.

(Not some random person's place, mind you, but the apartment of one of the students of my lab.)

And I had a very interesting and lengthy conversation with Tom about drugs and tattoos and how screwed up we all were a few years back.

But throughout the whole evening, people happened to talk a little bit about their couples. And they made me so ill at ease that I was barely able to look at the Fabulous Feline in the eye.

We've had the guy whose (Italian) mother is concerned about because his wife is going to be away for a good week and he'll have nobody to cook him dinner. (I know the guy himself is not to blame, because he feels perfectly able to survive more dire twists of fate, but still.)

We've had the guy whose wife is continuously nagging about having children and starting a family, notwithstanding the fact that he works a job part-time, is completing a PhD, and teaches in another university.

We've had Tom whose girlfriend of then less than a year got insanely upset at because he was putting a lot of his own money in a huge flat TV, to the point of phoning her own mother from the line to the checkout, screaming that Tom was not reliable as to the way he manages his money. (Good thing the mother calmed her down.)

We've had the guy who claims that he does not care about his looks anymore because he is married. And, more generally speaking, about how your life is different when you tie the knot.

And so on.

And so forth.

My, oh my. Everything seemed antagonist to what I'm expecting in a relationship and rather close to what I see as a rather jerky behavior. And these people are, you know, smart. And I like them a lot. But man... my whole brain was screaming "run, run, run!".

Am I supposed to bitch at what my boyfriend does with his own goddamn money which isn't mine? Am I supposed to cook every single meal for him? Am I supposed to give him shit because it is clearly not the right time to make babies? Is my life supposed to be meaningless if I am projecting myself in something different than nice little house + husband + beautiful blond brats + brand new SUV?

Because if that's the case... we're not out of the woods yet, lemme tell ya.

(Oh, and if I am being incoherent, it's because I have decided to up the dosage of my favorite medication and, if it's not as bad as last Saturday, I am not feeling that much focused and consistent.)