Foreverland: On the Divine Tedium of Marriage

Why is this person always the same, and always in the way—a mumbling roadblock, a pointy Lego brick underfoot, a smelly heap of laundry blocking the bathroom door—and also, somehow, the only path back to sanity?

That’s life in the suburbs: pretending that nothing is bothering you while you eat something shitty.

Over time, marriage itself starts to feel like a slowly unfolding apocalypse. Your marriage will die or you will die. Which ending seems happier?

I didn’t realize how much internalized misogyny was wrapped up in my perception of women of all stripes, not just mothers. The truth was, I found fault with most of the women I encountered in the world. Every single one of them looked like a cautionary tale of what not to become. I didn’t realize yet that I was huffing the patriarchal spray paint t

My default mode on most busy days is withdrawn cynicism.

Every book about marriage is also a book about mortality, since the success of any marriage is defined not by happiness or good fortune but by death.

Contrary to popular wisdom, growing older does not make you less conflicted. In fact, you become more and more conflicted by the second. You can see all sides of any given thing. It’s all stupid bullshit and you want all of it, everything, and you also want none of it, it can all go fuck itself.

Maybe this is a feature of that rock-bottom feeling you sometimes get when you’re married: All bad emotions come packaged with other bad emotions. No sadness is just sadness. No weakness is just weakness. Sadness is desperation is shame is weakness is grief is desolation is longing is abandonment is death.

When Bill sneezes, it’s like a blast from an air horn aimed at your face. No matter where he is in the house, his sneezes are excruciatingly loud. Somehow there are two notes involved, a screechy high one and a shouty low one. It’s as if someone in the next room has spotted a bear and they’re making this high-pitched yet also bellowing bark of hyst