ON A RECENT SUNDAY, our 23rd anniversary, I asked my husband to marry me again. This was not romantic. This was triage, a dose up the nose of marital Narcan. The night before, Dan had smacked closed his laptop, on which we were watching that tender, electric meet-cute scene in season two of The Bear. “Wait,” he said. “Do you think we’re going to be sitting on this couch watching Netflix until we die? Like, for the next 35 years?”
I said “yes.”
In 2000, when we got married, we had two rules: No cheating and no dying. Back then, nobody talked about ethical nonmonogamy, just as nobody talked about gluten. On your wedding day, you just put on your fancy clothes, took (took?) your lover as your spouse, and…