Try Not to Panic Marry Pt 2

A few months into my panic-marry marriage, wedded bliss, when he wouldn’t (he’d say couldn’t) get a job, he suggested we go live with his mother. I screamed, out loud for one full minute. Like in a horror movie.

I wasn’t the only one with complaints. This dude, who I’ll call Goatee, because of his extraordinarily run-of-the-mill facial hair choice, had the audacity to tell me that maybe I drank too much. Which was ridiculous. The real problem was that he didn’t drink enough!

Sometimes we’d hang out with his friends and their girlfriends. Well, with his two friends and one was his brother. Still. They’d talk like drinkers, “Let’s get beer and watch movies.” And I’d be like, Yeah! Then they’d get a six pack of beer. A six pack. There were literally SIX of us! Sometimes five, but still, who needs one beer and one-fifth of a beer? I’d usually grab more just in case. Then I’d watch my husband get bored with his beer half-way through the bottle while I was downing drink three. I swear. They sucked. I had to stop drinking with them.

So pretty quickly we found out this marriage was less than awesome.

I actually tried to get it annulled, but the priest just laughed and said the first year is the hardest. I found that the second year was also the hardest. And the third, too.

I told Goatee I wasn’t happy. He said, “Well, I am happy. If you’re not happy, you need to deal with it.” Not really how happy people talk, but okay.