I was sitting at the Bel Aire Grill watching the Braves get beat, sipping Rhino Chaser Ale and reflecting on my past relationships. I was the first of a small group of people who were meeting for drinks and discussions of work that night so I had plenty of time to think before they arrived.

I was thinking about what I wanted to write in the column this week in regard to my luck with women. I was thinking I needed a piece of paper to write my thoughts down.

And of course the Rhino chased that thought and almost all the others right out of my mind, until today.

My relationships with women have worked out so much differently than I was hoping they would.

I always thought I would be the one who would have been married at least three times by now. I wanted to have ex-wife stories that I could swap with the guys at the gym and we'd all stand around shaking our heads and saying, "Wow," and "Man," and "I sure am glad I'm out of there." True horror stories that I could tell to my teen-age sons (when I have sons) that will make them resist dating for many years past their high school graduations.

I wanted to skip alimony checks, get angry calls from my ex-wives threatening me with court if I didn't cough up the $150 I owe. The conversations would end with me charming her into not only forgetting the money but loaning me an extra $50 to boot.

I wanted to be the guy who goes to Las Vegas on a wild drunken gambling spree in which I run into an exotic dancer named Lilly who takes a shine to my slanted smile and slightly out of focus eyes. We spend 72 hours drinking tequila and gambling away my car and house, my ex-wives' cars and houses and finally my boss's car and house, which I managed to get the titles for before I left.

Around 4 a.m. on the fourth day we decide to wed. Neither of us has eaten more than a package of jalapeno and Monterey jack cheese crackers each, nor have we brushed our teeth, in almost four days but we're in love. We feel like we've known each other all our lives so we run off to a little chapel where the cross on the roof is highlighted by blinking Christmas lights and the preacher is dressed like Elvis Presley. And not the young cool Elvis either, but the old fat Elvis.

We stand before the Rev. Elvis, sipping from our cocktails in between reciting our vows, then scurry off to my hotel room.

I even wanted to have the stories of waking up the next morning and realizing what I'd done, feeling my chest squeeze painfully as I fish the daiquiri-stained marriage license from my polyester dress pants (which I'm still wearing).

Instead of these wonderful events I have been basically a fairly nice, honest and sober person. And do you want to know where it has gotten me?

I've had a bunch of relationships, all of which have ended without a messy divorce. I've never had a child out of wedlock. I've never had the father of a weeping 17-year-old cheerleader stalk over to me with an evil look in his eyes, spit tobacco juice on my shoe, and say with a sneer, "Looks like we's gonna have ourselves a hitchin'."

I'm even attracted to women who aren't good for me and still it hasn't gotten me into trouble. I'm friends with almost all my previous girlfriends. I've been invited to one ex-girlfriend's impending marriage -- how pathetically nice is that?

Maybe if I start smoking things will turn around for me. Fire up a Lucky, meet a biker chick, stop using deodorant on a regular basis and my whole life might zoom off into far-flung realms of adventure.

It's something to hope for at least.

~David Angier is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.