Balls and Chains

I got married by a judge. In the courthouse. It was a Monday. April 3rd. I was 18. I had on my favorite color at the time. Peach.

Now I know it looks terrible on my pink-tinted skin. But then, peach was my color.

Peach shirt. And khakis. I really went all out for my wedding.

The man I married made faces at me as I recited my vows. I giggled a few times.

I remember the judge's name was Alexander.

Two months later I dropped out of school and moved away to start my married life.

We were so young. So untested. It was over within a year, both of us too stubborn to give up for another two.

I drove from California to Tennessee while I put an end to it. Physical distance to match emotional distance. It wasn't difficult. I remember passing from faded sandy tans to rich greens, the closer I got to home, the closer I got to the next stage.

Only once since then have I considered marriage again. Briefly. Very, very briefly.

I don't have that same romantic notion. Marriage is difficult. It takes more than I am sometimes willing to give.

In comparison, submission is easy. The expectation is set. The rules are in place, pre-negotiated. Consequences are understood. There is logic and pattern and ease. This is simplification, I know.

But even submission chafes at me. As you well know.

So. I am married again. I commit to me. I placed a ring on my own finger, a ring engraved with Shakespeare.

'To thine own self be true.'

I can do that.