Syntheton (sin’-the-ton): When by convention two words are joined by a conjunction for emphasis.
Love and marriage. Ideally, they go together, but often, there is marriage without love. There are motives that provide a choice, not for better and for worse, but only for better—only until the shit hits the fan. I’ve been married 4 times (so far). My moral compass points in every direction but the ‘right’ direction.
I got married the first time because it was the thing to do. All my friends were getting married right out of high school, not thinking beyond their burger-flipping lives. There was a girl named Lindsey that I sort of liked. She had one crossed eye and excessive ear wax in both ears, and a tic in her left hand. She had beautiful hair and a body shape from a fashion magazine. I figured if I married her, given her maladies she would give me a free hand out of fear that I would leave her. Also, I would never have to worry about her cheating on me—who would want her?
She cried when I asked her to marry me. Her gratitude was nearly heartbreaking. I felt pretty cagey. So, we got married. About six months after we were married, she had surgery, using my medical insurance from Burger King. She was beautiful. She was perfect. I could tell that she was starting to feel too good for me. She started going out at night and coming home at dawn. I wanted to kill her. Then, she told me she was working the night shift at Cliff’s to earn money to help me go to college. So, I started going to the community college, working at night at Burger King. No matter what, my feelings for Lindsey ran shallow. I still did not love her and that made it easy to “experiment” with other women.
The community college was like a delicatessen. I was hauling in more tukas than I ever dreamed possible. I spent nearly as much time in the back seat of my car as I did in the classroom. There was this one girl name Angie who blew all my fuses. When we went at it, my car rocked so much you could hear the gas sloshing in the gas tank. I was in love. So, without any trepidations whatsoever, I dumped Lindsey. We got a no-fault divorce. She begged me not to do it and became clinically depressed and tried suicide. I cared a little, but not enough. I was going to marry Angie, my tue love. I asked Angie to marry me. She told me she was already married and her husband was a dick. Then, I tried to get back together with Lindsey, but too much time had passed and she didn’t want me back anyway. She was pregnant and living with a man who “loved” her. She was happy.
I’m not going to bother to recount all my failed marriages. Marriage #1 was a complete catastrophe centered around my belief that marriage without love would shield me from the ongoing woe that is marriage. There were scales over my eyes when I looked at Lindsey. She loved me, but I didn’t appreciate it. I was an idiot, and I still am. Since Lindsey, I have made roadkill out of every relationship I’ve had, especially my marriages. Coming off of 4 marriages that didn’t work, I think I am a sadist who takes leisure in inflicting pain on my hapless wives. I’m undergoing psychological counseling t figure it all out, and maybe correct myself, and maybe, find love.
POSTSCRIPT
I’ve realized that I can’t be counseled. I have started a torrid affair with my therapist. I think it’s illegal. I am going to ask her to marry me.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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