The Human Tripod: A Survival Guide
Have I ever felt like a third wheel? Darling, I haven’t just felt it; I’ve perfected it. I’m not just an accessory to coupledom; I’m its unwilling anthropologist, a connoisseur of cringe, a scholar of schmaltz. My role isn't "friend." It's "The Human Tripod," the stable, utterly redundant third leg that allows the two-wheeler of their insipid romance to wobble precariously forward without completely face-planting.
Let me set the scene for you. It was a simple plan: drinks. What it became was a live-action performance of "The Mating Habits of the Terribly Needy." We’ll call them Chad and Stacey, though their real names are probably something like Brayden and Kayleigh. From the moment I slid into the booth, I was no longer a person. I was audience, witness, and captive photographer.
The conversation was a masterclass in banality. It wasn't a dialogue; it was a verbal ping-pong match where the ball was their own adoration, and I was the net.
“Babe, your eyes look so sparkly tonight,” Chad would murmur, staring at Stacey as if she’d just discovered cold fusion.
“It’s because I’m looking at you, silly,” Stacey would coo back.
At this point, I’d physically interject, waving a hand between their locked gazes. “Hello? Still here. Just ordering a bottle of whatever the opposite of this is.” They’d chuckle, pat my hand like a family dog, and resume their mutual hypnosis.
Then came the food. A single order of fries. One plate. This is a tactical error of catastrophic proportions for the third wheel. What ensued was not a meal, but a feeding ritual. He’d feed her a fry. She’d giggle. She’d dab a non-existent speck of ketchup from his lip. He’d pretend to nibble her finger. I half-expected a documentary voiceover to kick in: “Observe the male performing a grooming ritual to strengthen the pair-bond. The lone female onlooker appears… desiccated.”
I tried to contribute. I brought up geopolitics. They used it as a springboard to discuss whose country they’d rather honeymoon in. I mentioned a movie. They started planning a "cozy movie night" for two. My purpose was clear: I was a human-shaped conversation prompt, designed solely to inspire them to reaffirm their devotion to each other.
The pinnacle of the evening was The Selfie. “Let’s get a picture!” Stacey chirped. What this meant was, they would contort their faces into a dozen variations of kissy-duck-face, while I, the designated tripod, held the phone at the perfect angle to capture their love. My own reflection in the dark screen was a portrait of profound existential fatigue. After 47 shots, Chad had the audacity to look at me and say, “You’re such a good sport.”
No, Chad. I’m not a sport. I’m a monument to patience, a glutton for punishment, and the sole reason your Instagram story didn’t consist of a poorly lit, arm’s-length shot of your double chins. I am the third wheel. And I’m the one keeping this rickety wagon of your relationship from rolling off a cliff. You’re welcome.
#ThirdWheelChronicles#RelationshipAnthropology#HumanTripod
#CringeAndBearIt#CoupleGoalsMyEye#SarcasmIsAService#AlphaObserver
#RoastOfRomance#usmanshaikh #usmanwrites#usm
