Not a woman, but perhaps the female kiwis can explain how it would make them feel all warm and fuzzy to be described as that old toy you choose to keep, when forced to choose?
That would require us to be in Kayla’s shoes, because she stepped out, too. I wouldn’t know. Now, if my marriage
as it is was a one-sided deal, I couldn’t fathom. The happy days of courtship, the flirting, late nights filled with ice cream and dumb jokes, the first time being casually asked ring size over pizza; meeting parents, nervous dinners, figuring out how to agree on disagreements, being in a room together without having to do
something, just enjoying existence; popping the question, finding a house, nesting, goofily going through a zillion wedding dresses, entwining. The Big Day. Two becoming one flesh and nothing and no one else getting in the way. Loving someone so much that love becomes another little person. The laundry days with tiny shirts and sockies and bibs. And another, and another, and…
… I feel like I would be at death’s door by now. Like a cornered rabbit willing itself to die. Marriage literally cannot be shared. Christ said what God has joined together, let no man rent asunder. It all seems like an existential horror. Imagine sharing body and soul - especially bearing his children, you REALLY share DNA - with one person then it all just amounts to your husband feeling tingly in his peepee for a few months and you’re yesterday’s news. The amount of moral
rot one must have.
But while watching KC last night, Mr. Bowl came into the kitchen last night, called Nick a gutless queer, and made a sandwich. Nick and Kayla are the architects of their own fucking problems. Let them enjoy the fruits of what they’ve wrought.
