I Am Engaged to My Fourth Wife
What will it mean to re-enter the institution of marriage?
Last night, I dreamt I went to a wedding again. Mine. It seemed to me I stood by the altar, beneath an arch, my feet on petals, and afterward I could not move, for the reception was barred, and plated. There was a ball and chain upon my ankle.
Well, of course it wasn’t a ball and chain. Wives aren’t really like that. I should know: I’ve had three of them. And the dream I just described isn’t a dream. It’ll soon be a memory.
On October 31 — yes, Halloween — I am slamming the book on another bachelorhood. Shedding my singleness. Undoing my unattachment. Once more unto the beach (best place for a honeymoon), then home to the next in a long line of love nests.
I am marrying once more, and I couldn’t be happier. For real.
According to the Washington Post, over 9 million Americans have been married three times or more. I am one of them. Three up, three down — end of an inning, end of an institution. I hit the trifecta of termination, gold medalled in misery, performed the hat trick of hearings. I am 47 years old, and at this rate, I’ll catch Elizabeth Taylor in trips to the altar by the time I’m 60.
