Marriage: it's basically chicken pox.

I almost asked someone out today.  Well, I kind of did (I know, I know: I feel a touch of guilt about it, and I’ll seek absolution before next Mass).

India Pale Ale, Lomond Hotel, Australia

She batted the offer away.  And almost as soon as she did I was relieved.

Why? She’s a Ph.D. candidate, and that means she’s already more successful than me with my little ol’ Bachelors degrees [B.A. (Hons); LL.B.].  I’ve already been with someone who was more successful than me, and who earned more than me, and who always seemed to remind me of both facts when the caused the greatest humiliation.  I remember the crushing feeling of knowing I could do nothing about it, because I would not abandon the promises I made at the altar.

I never want to feel so caught in a bear trap of someone else's contempt again.

It struck me afterwards that because I can’t repartner, I’ll never feel like that again.  Never ever. So now I’m sitting solo in the beer garden of the Lomond Hotel with a pint of India Pale Ale thinking that marriage is the emotional equivalent of adult-onset chicken pox.  Mercilessly contagious, and miserable as hell when you get it.  But once you’ve gotten over the infection, it can’t strike you again.  You’re free.  Free forever.

Table for one please.