There are days I hate thinking about marriage. My own, other people’s, particularly when I glance through the old sexless marriage post or the new one, and read the replies. Or when I read about Bush’s endorsement of Marriage Protection Week. Argh.
And then, bless all that’s sweet and sexy and lubricious in the world, I read Mark Morford, and I realize maybe we’re not all doomed. He has a lovely quote near the end of the article:
Marriage needs to be tickled until it screams. Marriage needs to be stripped down and sprayed with whipped cream and licked all over. Marriage needs to be blown apart with the dynamite of new possibility and put back together again in ten thousand different kaleidoscopic configurations, each one encouraged and celebrated and applauded, even those that don’t involve ridiculously expensive cakes and tepid church ceremonies and the bride zonked on Valium as the groom slams another scotch to calm his nerves.
This is the only way. Evolve or die, honey. Because it’s exactly when you try to force-fit love’s modern, ever-evolving mutations into archaic, increasingly bitter boxes of ideology and Right wing-approved blandness and sactimony that the culture suffers most. Legislating love is never the answer. Hey, just ask your neighborhood Catholic priest.
Lovely. Almost makes me want to get married again someday, just to join in the fun.