I had intended to not.

Then, after a turn at living together with my partner in an Islamic country — where we were not allowed to officially cohabit — we realized that our rights to watch each other’s backs were made way simpler by being married.

So we got married.

Had we always lived in a country that recognized cohabitation or common-law relationships, we might have not. Had our next sojourn not been in a predominantly Catholic country, we might have not. Had we more role models who didn’t, we might have not. Had we moved home earlier, we might have not.

But we did. It was 12 years ago.

Bottom line, we don’t find it burdensome; or that we are locked in a prison together. We care for one another. We drive one another crazy. We have the same fights over and over. We support each other and keep track of each other’s families, friends, medical conditions, and car keys. It’s nice. It’s mundane. It’s comfortable. It’s practical.

Getting out would be a giant pain in the everything. And expensive.

We don’t wield our rings against one another. We don’t demand “rights” from one another because we’re married. We don’t have extraordinary unspoken expectations of one another. We accept, value, and console one another. We’re a unit in this fucked up place.

People are crazy. I’m crazy. She’s the crazy I’m used to and can interact with.

I’m too old for new crazy.

Granted, she’s certainly gaining more by being married to me than I am being married to her. But, we don’t keep score either.

TL;DR — comments in bold.