I didn’t marry for love or companionship. I married for sperm. Because it was easier to make babies and share a lifetime with a stranger than dealing with people asking you repeatedly why you chose to be a single mom with a bottle of baby batter.
I knew what I wanted. And I got what I wanted — a dream arrangement that allowed me to live my life without compromises. Where making a cup of tea in the morning was the only addition to my life.
“It’s like having a roommate who doesn’t ask you for your share of the rent,” is what I told my single friends who didn’t understand my need to marry so young.
We weren’t obliged to be nice to our friends. We had no mandatory date nights. Only sex nights 7 days a week. We didn’t have to do anything together; we lived our lives out of mind out of sight. It’s what I wanted. Because I am incapable of love and commitment.
It worked for a while. And then it didn’t. And then it did. And I hear a majority of marriages are like that, so I thought my decision still didn’t top my ‘seems sensible but stupid’ list.
After all it gave me what I wanted: a gorgeous happy baby.
Slowly, everything changed. The previously perfect arrangement seemed stifling. The rules changed. The sex changed. The body changed.
But I was too busy falling in love with the most infectious laugh I have heard yet. There was so much poop that I didn’t notice how much my marriage stank. And how can you let little things bother you when you have a tiny handsome someone telling you ‘I laaavvoooooo.’
I didn’t marry for love. And I am glad, because it stings a lot lesser tonight than it would have if I were in love with this man who just threatened to torture me with hot oil and break my legs.