I made a bad
decision about getting married, the first time around. We were young. We were
kids. My intended was a sterling person, one of the best I’d ever known, and we
were surrounded by friends cheering us on in a foreign country, an exotic land thrust
more than a mile up under a pollution-free ice-blue sky, with (at least where
we were working) no heat and no running water. Our parents, the people we could
ordinarily rely on to nod, smile kindly, and ask such pertinent questions as,
“Are you out of your freaking minds??!!” were thousands of miles away in another
hemisphere, in a long-ago world of no internet, email, cell phones, texting, or
Skype. So why not get married? What the heck, everything else was uncharted territory
– I mean, to answer the call of the wild in the middle of the night, I was
trekking out back to an adobe hut with no seat in the middle of a chicken yard.
So we cast our fate to the wind. And eventually, the wind blew the marriage
away like a Bolivian dust storm. Pretty much all my fault, in my opinion, so do
I now regret getting married? Feel terrible about it, yes. Regret it, well,
that’s a close one, but no, because I learned a lesson, I got a do-over, and I
made a better decision the second, and final, time.
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