Apparently This Is Legally Binding

It turns out getting married is mostly agreeing to have the same argument about the thermostat until one of you dies. Before I got married, I assumed marriage would feel different. Not bad different. Not good different. Just noticeably, unmistakably different. Like there would be some internal click. You sign the paper, somebody says congratulations, you go home, and suddenly you are a Married Person with mysterious adult knowledge about property taxes and casserole dishes. That did not happen. I woke up the next morning next to the same person I had gone to sleep next to. He was still taking up too much of the bed. I was still stealing the blankets. Nobody delivered the casserole knowledge. Honestly, disappointing.

You Still Feel Like You

This is probably the first thing nobody tells you. Marriage does not transform you into a different species. I did not wake up more mature. Jace did not suddenly understand why putting an empty container back in the refrigerator is an act of psychological aggression. We were just us, except now there was paperwork confirming it. For the first few weeks, the word husband felt ridiculous in my mouth. Not because I didn’t like it. It just sounded very official. A husband should own several ladders. A husband should know what kind of oil goes in a lawn mower. A husband should stand in a driveway with his hands on his hips and say, “Well, there’s your problem.” Jace was just Jace. Then, at some point, it stopped sounding weird. I don’t know when. That’s how most of marriage seems to work. Nothing happens all at once. It just quietly becomes your life.

Everything Becomes Ours, Except the Things That Absolutely Do Not

There is our bedroom. Our groceries. Our plans. Our bills. Our extremely judgmental cat, despite certain historical disagreements regarding ownership. Then there are objects that remain protected by international treaty. I have a side of the bathroom counter. He has a side. This agreement is not written down, but violations will be prosecuted. There are also chargers. People like to pretend chargers are communal property once you get married. They are not. You can borrow mine. You cannot relocate mine. If my phone is at four percent and I discover that the charger normally beside the bed has migrated to another room, the vows temporarily become subject to review. Marriage teaches you a lot about compromise. It also teaches you that some compromises are mistakes.

You Become Each Other’s Extremely Unqualified Medical Staff

There is a point in every long relationship where dignity quietly leaves the building. Marriage just makes the arrangement legally binding. You will inspect things. You will be asked, “Does this look weird?” You will say, “I don’t know.” Then you will look closer, despite having absolutely no qualifications. You will Google symptoms for each other. One of you will say, “It’s probably nothing.” The other will say, “Why did you say probably?” You will learn exactly how the other person behaves when sick. Jace becomes very reasonable when he is sick, which is somehow irritating. I become convinced I am perfectly capable of doing everything I normally do while visibly dying. Apparently walking around wrapped in a blanket saying, “I’m fine,” does not make it true. This has been explained to me several times. I disagree with the findings.

There Is No Such Thing as Looking Cool Anymore

Dating allows for editing. Not dishonesty. Just editing. You can decide which version of yourself is currently being presented to another human being. Marriage eventually destroys the editing department. The person you married is going to see you standing in the kitchen at midnight eating shredded cheese directly from the bag. They are going to see you lose an argument with a fitted sheet. They are going to hear whatever noise you make when you walk into the corner of a table. They will know which underwear you own because laundry has eliminated all remaining mystery. And somehow this is fine. That might be the strangest part. Being loved when you look good is nice. Being loved while sitting on the bathroom floor because you got dizzy after standing up too fast is a much more convincing sales pitch.

You Have the Same Conversation Hundreds of Times

Not the exact same conversation. Mostly. “Did you lock the door?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “Did you actually check it?” “I locked it.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” There are conversations that apparently become permanent features of the home: Where are your keys? Did you feed the cat? Do we need milk? What do you want for dinner? I don’t care. Okay, what about this? Not that. This last exchange can continue until both parties starve. Before marriage, I thought compatibility meant wanting the same things. Now I think it mostly means finding someone whose repetitive conversations you are willing to have for the rest of your life.

Arguments Get Dumber

You imagine married couples arguing about serious adult subjects. Finances. Careers. The future. And yes—sometimes. You will also have a ten-minute disagreement because somebody loaded the dishwasher in a way the other person considers evidence of moral failure. You will become passionate about things you have never previously cared about. Cabinet doors. Towels. Whether a light needs to be on. The correct location for scissors. I once realized halfway through an argument that neither of us actually cared about the thing we were arguing about anymore. At that point we were just defending our previous statements. There should probably be a word for this—maybe marriage. The useful part is learning when to stop. Not because the argument has been solved. Sometimes because you look at the person you love standing there defending an objectively insane position and realize you would rather go eat something. This is growth.

“We” Sneaks Up on You

This one bothered me at first. I never wanted to become one of those people who gets married and immediately loses the ability to speak in the singular. We love that restaurant. We’ve been busy. We don’t like olives. For the record, I have my own opinions. Some of them are even correct. But eventually you do start saying we. Not constantly. Just when it makes sense: We need groceries. We have plans Saturday. We forgot to mail that thing. And somewhere inside all of that boring language is something I didn’t expect to like as much as I do: there is another person factored into my life automatically now. Not as an obligation. As infrastructure. When I think about next month, he’s there. When I think about next year, he’s there. I don’t have to consciously add him. The math already includes him. That is terrifying if I think about it too long, so I generally don’t.

Love Gets Less Impressive and More Important

Nobody puts the good parts of marriage in movies because most of them would be terrible television. There is no dramatic soundtrack when somebody plugs your phone in because they noticed the battery was low. Nobody applauds because your husband remembered which cereal you like. There is no sweeping romantic montage of one person leaving the porch light on because the other one is coming home late. But that is most of it. At least for me. The big things matter. Of course they do. But the longer I’m married, the less convinced I am that love survives on big things. It survives on remembering. Paying attention. Knowing somebody hates making phone calls and saying, “I’ll do it.” Moving over without being asked. Getting the water. Picking up the prescription. Knowing when to talk and when to just sit there. There are probably more poetic ways to say that. I don’t have one. Sometimes love is just realizing the coffee is already made.

Nobody Warns You How Much You’ll Miss Them While They’re Still There

This part is unfair. Sometimes Jace will be sitting directly beside me and I’ll get this sudden, horrible awareness that time is happening. Nothing is wrong. That’s the problem. He’s just there. Maybe half asleep. Maybe scrolling through something on his phone. Maybe the cat is on him because apparently betrayal is real. And for a second I understand that this exact moment is temporary. Every moment is. I hate that. I would like to file a complaint with whoever designed the system. The good news is that the feeling usually passes. Then he’ll say something annoying and restore balance to the universe.

It Isn’t the Wedding

This should be obvious. I’m saying it anyway. The wedding is one day. Marriage is everything after everybody goes home. It is ordinary almost immediately. That is not a criticism. I think I expected ordinary to feel like something had worn off. Instead, ordinary turned out to be the good part. I like knowing where his shoes are going to be. I like hearing him moving around in another room. I like complaining about things that I would miss immediately if they disappeared. I even like saying my husband now. Mostly. It still sounds a little like I should own matching towels and know how escrow works. I do own matching towels. I still don’t know how escrow works. So I guess what they don’t tell you about marriage is that it doesn’t feel like reaching the end of something. It feels like you keep waking up. Same person. Same house. Same arguments. Same cat committing domestic terrorism before sunrise. And then one morning you realize you’ve built an entire life out of things that barely seemed important while they were happening, which is inconveniently sentimental, so I’m going to stop now. Jace moved my charger again.