The “I Do” Joker: Or Why You Should Never Marry a Washing Machine
Part 2: The “Perfect Match” Protocol
The morning after our decision felt like a hangover, just without the fun part involving alcohol beforehand. I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at Mia as she drank her coffee in an oversized hoodie, wearing the expression of a badly tempered bulldog.
“We can’t do this,” I said. “Just look at us. We don’t exactly radiate ‘eternal love’. We radiate more of a ‘we would bite each other’s carotid artery over the last slice of pizza’ kind of energy.”
“Finn, shut up,” Mia growled. “Lukas has already made an Excel spreadsheet. Once Lukas makes an Excel spreadsheet, there is no going back. It’s a law of nature.”
Lukas burst into the kitchen, a tablet tucked under his arm and a facial expression usually only seen on cult-like motivational coaches. “Good morning, lovebirds! I’ve finished the roadmap to your walk down the aisle – and to our two thousand euros.”
He slammed the tablet onto the table. On the screen was a mood board. It was titled: PROJECT: LOVE SCAM 2025.
“First,” Lukas lectured, tapping on a picture of a happy couple at sunset, “we need a backstory. Why are you together? Since when? And why did you keep it secret?”
“We kept it secret because we were embarrassed?” I suggested. “Too realistic,” said Lukas. “We need romance. You met during an illegal rescue mission for laboratory hamsters.” “Lukas, I’m allergic to everything with fur,” Mia interjected. “Okay, plan B: You met in a supermarket, fighting over the last pack of vegan Maultaschen, and realised you both share a passion for obscure Scandinavian crime series.”
“That sounds… depressingly plausible,” Mia admitted.
“Good. Step two: digital proof,” Lukas continued. “We need to flood social media. If it’s not on Instagram, it legally never happened. We’re going to the park. Golden hour. We’re taking the ‘engagement photo’.”
Ten minutes later, we were standing in the city park. It was windy, cold, and I was wearing a shirt I hadn’t worn since my brother’s confirmation, which was stretching suspiciously under the arms.
“Finn, put your arm around her!” shouted Lukas, waving the iPhone around like a director at the Oscars. “I don’t want to touch him,” Mia hissed through clenched teeth. “He smells like old cereal.” “That’s not cereal, that’s my new deodorant! ‘Arctic Wilderness’!” I protested. “It smells like ‘Arctic Decomposition’,” she shot back.
“Could you please stop bickering like an old married couple before you’re even married?” Lukas yelled. “Mia, look at him like he’s a hot meal and you haven’t eaten in three days. Finn, look at her like you’ve just won the lottery and she’s the winning ticket.”
I tried to twist my face into something resembling affection. Mia reluctantly rested her head on my shoulder. “Smile!” Lukas commanded.
Click. Click. Click.
“Perfect!” Lukas cried, holding the display out to us. In the photo, we actually looked like a couple. The filters turned Mia’s annoyed glare into something like ‘mysterious melancholy’, and my strained grin looked, in the backlight, like ‘overwhelming happiness’.
“I hate it,” said Mia. “I look like I’ve been brainwashed.” “That’s called ‘being in love’, Mia,” Lukas grinned.
Back at the flat, real life began: the announcement. We had created a WhatsApp group containing all the relevant relatives – from Mia’s strict Aunt Erna to my Uncle Herbert, who was famous for single-handedly drinking two bottles of wine at weddings and then crying about pension reform.
Lukas typed the message: “Surprise! Sometimes you find happiness exactly where you least expect it – in the room next door. We can hardly believe it ourselves, but we’re saying YES! 💍 Details about the spontaneous celebration coming soon!”
He looked at us. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. “Are you ready for the point of no return?” he asked.
I swallowed. If we did this, there was no turning back. We would have to lie until the cows came home. We would have to hug Aunt Erna. We would have to… God forbid… dance an opening waltz.
“Press it,” Mia said in a graveyard voice. “Before I change my mind and report us all to the police.”
Lukas pressed it. The smartphone started vibrating almost immediately. Ding. Aunt Erna is typing… Ding. Uncle Herbert is typing… Ding. Mum’s incoming call.
“It’s starting,” I whispered.