You wouldn't believe me if I told you.

I have long thought of my general response to the chasm of disposition that occurs upon finding out that I, in my twenty-second year, am married. I could be cute and exclaim my happiness that has grown into a stitching of skin, tugging of yarn through cells, producing the I-am-no-longer-satisfied-with-self, the disintegration of independence replaced with a kind of regenerative mirroring. It is not that we exist, it is that we exist attached, at gun-point, unable to properly exhale unless the other inhales.

And it is fun living with yourself, if your self-esteem is high enough. Waiting for yourself to get home. To get home to yourself. Like clearing the throat, or putting on a fresh pair of panties. Like dragging a needle through the top of your foot to create an aesthetic result.

But I am afraid. To expose private collapsings that occured directly before and after. It's not like lypo-suction. It's like lypo-suction. I don't want to get into the sludgy mess of religious ideals that I do or don't. I pity, though I understand, those who do not attempt to understand how, after getting married under debatable circumstances, the temperament of both sexes is such that developed sustainability.

But I don't choose the 'cute' route. I offer a smile, show my ring for proof (while alligning the diamonds to display brilliance) and say "I get that a lot." And I wait. For him to exhale.