Things are going OK with The Lovely
Mrs. Taylor. But I’ve been married four times before and I know from bitter
experience our plans don’t always work out the way we think they’re going to.
Someone cheats. Someone turns out to
be gay (not me, though I am a snappy dresser). Someone empties out the
apartment and moves in with a fat guy that services electronic dart machines.
If these “for instances” seem a bit specific, it’s because I’m drawing from
personal experience here.
Yes, Mrs. Taylor and I are currently just
fine and I have no reason to think we won’t remain that way. However, in the
unlikely event I find myself single again, I now have a new option with regard
to marital status (other than single, married, divorced or hiding in another
city under an assumed name).
I can marry myself.
Yup. People are actually doing this
now and by “people” I mean “women.” So far, it’s only women who have taken part
in the “sologamy” ceremony, a non-legal, but theoretically emotionally binding
event in which an individual buys a white dress or rents a tux, hires a caterer
and finds a rent-a-preacher with an open mind and a willingness to perform
pretty much anything for fifty bucks.
So far, it’s a feminist thing; women
deciding (publicly) to put their career ahead of a husband and family.
Yeah, it’s kinda nuts and narcissistic,
but no more so than a lot of stuff going on in the world. Who am I to judge?
In fact, when I recently read an
article about sologamy, my first thought was, “Well, that would cut down on the
nagging.”
And it would. Think of it; nobody to
tell you how to fold the towels, when to water the plants, how to properly load
the dishwasher (this, apparently, is a task second in complexity only to
prepping a space shuttle mission, to hear Mrs. T explain it).
There’s just one problem: I don’t
want to marry myself. I mean, I’m not against the idea of sologamy, I just
don’t want to marry ME. I’m not sure why anyone would. Were I someone else –
someone easier to get along with – I might go for it. But marry me? Uh-uh. Not
on a bet.
There are four previous wives who are
undoubtedly nodding their collective heads right now and thinking, “Boy you got
that right, buddy! ANYBODY but you!”
They have a point. I’m not
particularly easy to live with. Oh, I try to be good. I fold the towels before
putting them back on the rack (usually), I don’t put giant bowls in the bottom
rack of the dishwasher thereby preventing water from reaching the coffee mugs
(sometimes), I don’t leave my shoes in the middle of the living room floor
(yes, I do).
Point is, despite my best efforts,
about 50 percent of everything I do or say is pure nightmare fuel for most women.
I know this because my last wife (the one before The Lovely Mrs. Taylor) once
told me, “About 50 percent of everything you do or say is pure nightmare fuel,”
after which she threw a spatula at me and left.
I took it as a sign that there was
room for improvement.
In the years since then, I’ve tried
to better myself, but in all honestly, I’ve probably only reduced that whole
nightmare fuel thing by maybe two percent.
Even at my best, marrying myself seems
just as unpalatable to me as it does to all those exes.
Still, if the worst should happen and
things don’t work out for Mrs. T and yours truly, sologamy could be a
last-ditch solution. A marriage takes work sometimes. I dunno, maybe me and
myself could see a counselor or something.
Maybe get the two-for-one rate.
(616) 730-1414
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