Like most of my generation, I've been soured on the concept of marriage since childhood. This was largely because pop culture showed me only three stages to love: desperately trying to stumble into it, eventually securing it with marriage and then spending the rest of your life regretting it. Even the happily wed couples on TV have no magic or mystique left to them; they constantly complain of feeling stuck, or bored, or harangued to their wit's end. If anybody tells their story at all, it's always about how the miserable married couple, via liberal application of wacky shenanigans, learned to finally love again -- never how they stayed that way from the start and everything has been pretty neat the whole time. It's obvious why that is -- contentment does not make for good storytelling -- but as a kid with divorced parents raised on a lot of television, I bought into the portrayal of marriage as a life-ruining mistake because of it.
NEVER FORGET.
I've only recently become convinced otherwise, but am I ever glad that I was, because there are some amazing upsides to marriage that just don't get as much play as the pitfalls.
Oh, and before we start, know that when I say "marriage," I'm really just using that as shorthand for the point in a relationship when two people realize they could stay together forever, and both agree to do so. If your equivalent of that doesn't involve legal matrimony, and you can be just as committed and loving without this symbolic gesture, more power to you. But I'm not writing out "any loving union entered into by two people that is like marriage in many aspects, but may not come with any religious significance, the proper paperwork or be technically acknowledged by law because of some archaic bullshit hangups about sexuality" every time. That's just a pain in the ass to type.
As a socially awkward, mildly unattractive man in my 20s, girls were a fucking scourge. Don't get me wrong, ladies: It was nothing you did, and I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm just saying that, if I was interacting with you at any point in my early 20s and you were an even slightly attractive heterosexual single woman, then there was something at stake: No matter how absurdly remote the possibility, no matter how little either of us may have even wanted it in the first place, there was always a slight chance that we would sleep together at some point. Again, don't mistake me: I'm not saying I'm a ladies man here. We're talking odds in the upper billions, I know. But hey, maybe I've had just enough whiskey to be charming, but not enough to start a fistfight with your dog. Or maybe you've watched enough of the same rehashed '80s TV to understand my jokes. Or maybe you're just really, really high and think I kind of look like Ed Norton caught in a time distortion.
"You kinda look like that guy from Fight Club, but y'know ... after the beatings. And with boiling skin and goat eyes."
Regardless of the likelihood, being single meant that every single interaction with an eligible member of the opposite sex -- whether that was talking with them at a party or ordering a coffee -- had something riding on the results. My entire life from 13 to 25, I felt like I had an open bet riding on a roulette wheel that may or may not ever actually stop to pay out. Sex was a niggling little rat in the back of my mind, gnawing slowly but persistently through my rational brain: "Did she like that joke? Is she laughing at me, or with me? Wait, what does that look mean? Is that lust or is she trying to burn me with her thoughts? Did she get that reference? Did I just seal the deal, or kill it forever? Should I go? I should just go. Or should I ask to stay over? Or
I wasn't a sex-crazed fiend or anything. It's not that I even necessarily wanted to sleep with you (although yes, I probably did) -- I'm just saying that, for well over a decade, there was a dim social pressure between pretty girls and me, and it flavored our every conversation with stress and judgment.
"Yes, my penis finds your anecdote very amusing."
And now that I'm happily married,
When you get married, you instantly gain an amazing new superpower: To never again insist that you genuinely want to see the prints when that hot blonde tells you she's "something of a photographer."
Any time you share your life with another person, there are going to be stressors: The kids will get sick, the house will need repair, you'll take a nasty spill and be unable to work, get attacked by Russian drug-smugglers, or watch your sailboat tragically explode
Life still can and absolutely will shit all over each of you in turn, it's just that now that you're married, that shit gets spread out over a whole other person. Sure, that means two people get shit on instead of one, but it's
You're so fucked that the concept of fucked has turned in on itself and formed a fucked paradox that threatens to destroy the very fucked universe.
For me, it was usually cars: I was poor, and bought junkers which -- surprise! -- usually turned out to be pieces of junk. They would inevitably explode or implode (or, in one bizarre case,
In other words, I learned that marriage isn't just about love, romantic intentions and raising kids. It means playing co-op through life; it means never being pinned down by life's nonstop hail of bullshit bullets again, because there's always somebody there to cover you while you sprint up and poetically drop the exploded shell of your sailboat
If you're anything like me, most of your affection for something lies in the amount of exposure you get to it. Sometimes "this album sucks" is a statement of divergent opinion, sometimes it means you're listening to Incubus and sometimes it just means "I haven't listened to this 10 times yet." My impressions can be changed pretty easily, and given enough forced exposure to a thing, I can eventually start to see the good in it. Marriage means sharing space, time and sometimes conflicting interests with another human being ... forever. I can no longer monopolize the Netflix and watch nothing but Buffy for six weeks, because somebody else gets equal TV, video game or music time. As a side effect, I'm not only being exposed to new properties all the time, but being exposed to them by somebody I like and respect.
Before meeting my wife, I was locked into an insular little circle jerk of punk rock, role playing games and postmodern fiction. After meeting her, I can now debate the narrative merits of the esteemed Sir Ghostface Killah, or play through
"Yeah, I guess Dora is OK, but have you read the books? Way darker. Not just little kid stuff, like the show."
Getting married is like inviting somebody into your house that immediately opens up your garbage and starts pulling all the refuse out. It's weird and unsettling at first, and you wish they would just stop, but then they start unwrapping wads of toilet paper with precious metals inside, and you realize some of that shit has been gold this whole time.
Of course other times, on rare occasions, they're completely wrong and just end up wrist-deep in fecal matter. (
Being single can sometimes feel like treading water in a sea of assholes. Pretty much everything in life is always out to get you, and because you're alone, and you can't watch your back every minute of every day, it's only a matter of time before life slips in behind your peripherals and slits your damn throat. When you're single and feeling hurt, or depressed, or worried, you might have friends or family to turn to, but the important part is
We're all very impressed that you have a network of caring individuals around you, but some of us burned all of our bridges to see the pretty flames, OK? We don't need you in here flaunting your precious social circles in everybody's faces,
YES YOU ARE SO LOVED. KINDLY SHUT ALL OF YOUR FUCKS UP. YOU'VE INADVERTENTLY LEFT THEM OPEN.
At any rate, even with that village of happy, shiny people at your beck and call, you still have to hope they have time for you, or have gone through something similar enough to understand and relate to your situation. Somebody probably will, but there's no guarantee of that. There's always that gnawing doubt right before you ask, isn't there? Being single means having to turn to people in times of need; being married means never having to turn at all. You're a duality now. Your spouse will always share a core block of experience with you -- they'll vividly remember the time teenagers stole your truck just to drive it a block and ditch it, and how paying to get it out of police impound almost ruined you; they'll know how shitty it feels being robbed with all of your stuff still a state away; they'll understand that cheese makes you poop -- like, a lot -- but goddammit it's
Marriage is like having a permanent buffer of empathy around you at all times. Some gullible chump signed a contract that means they have to care about the stupid stuff you're going through, and if they don't like it -- tough. A contract is a contract and if you don't want to sympathize with the cheese-poops then you can talk to my lawyer, Meagan .
I've often heard it lamented (usually by somebody who's just turned 21) that there's nothing left in adulthood to look forward to after you can legally drink. As far as they're concerned, that's the last big adult milestone left in American culture. But like everything else a 21-year-old says, that statement is a slurry of misconceptions, lies and probably also some recycled memes.
Adulthood is a series of levels, and not every level comes with a new perk, that's true. But the big ones -- driving, voting, drinking -- aren't the only ones you get. Sure, at 21 you get to drink, which is a dramatic and obvious benefit: It's like gaining the ability to shoot fireballs. But sometimes the less flashy perks are, in the long run, much more helpful: Somewhere around 26, for example, you might discover that you don't really give a crap about other people's beliefs anymore (and not in a cruel way). Now you can interact with others that may harbor different religious or political beliefs without turning every party into a tired, ill-informed debate about the nature of life. That's like getting dual wield: It ain't as showy as hurling fiery doom around, but in the long run, you'll end up using it way more often and getting a lot more out of it. That's just an example, mind you: Maybe that happens way earlier than 26 for you, or maybe it never happens at all. Maybe at 24 you learn that some friendships tie you down as much as help you, and that lesson takes a lot of unwanted stress and drama out of your life. Or maybe you realize at 29 that your dad was right and work is its own reward -- and that means you start doing things on your days off instead of just farting into the couch until the dog leaves.
"Turnabout is fair play, my canine friend, though I do not recommend you turn about just now, for I have farted behind you and I assure you: It is terrible."
The perks, lessons, and the ages you that learn them are all variable. But perhaps the biggest one is the realization that you might have enough love in you to share every element of your existence with another human being, and inexplicably
You can buy Robert's book, Everything is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead, or follow him on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Or you can skip down to the comments to complain that marriage is a crock because you're 19 and don't know how to be wrong yet.
Robert Brockway
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