Vegas or Bust
Raising kids without being married worked — until it didn't.
by Madeline Holler
July 12, 2007
Yes, California's university system extended health benefits to domestic partners. But only for same-sex couples. We were in no position to fight it. In two weeks, the first $400 premium to continue insurance for me would come due. For a family of four living in Los Angeles County on the wages of a college professor in the humanities, the price for abandoning our principles was even lower than that. Wayne booked a room in Las Vegas for the following weekend.
"So you're saying I have to marry you?" I said.
"Yes," he said, "you do."
"Blue state my ass, California," I growled, as Wayne clicked his laptop shut. Directions from the hotel to a notorious drive-thru chapel sat in the printer tray. Three days later, we pulled into Circus Circus in time for dinner.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for commitment. I'm too insecure for anything but monogamy and, frankly, too lazy to be a single mom. But why did we have to get married? Why now? What did a pithy declaration of a forever promise mean to an HMO that staying coupled after four years of being parents, three major moves, two kids and one lawsuit did not? We had suffered all those looks pitying our "inability to commit," our "stubbornness not to conform" or, worst, suspicion that I couldn't get Wayne to settle down. Now we'd have to get through "congratulations!" and "it's about time!"
The first stop on our wedding day was the Marriage License Bureau, a stunningly matter-of-fact building in Vegas' bland downtown a few miles from The Strip, its dense lights, make-believe pirate ships and stories-high digital images of Celine Dion and her circus. Celebrity magazines had me believing we could just stumble into a wedding chapel, look into each others' bleary eyes, and walk out with souvenir wedding photos and feelings of regret. Not so.
Using short No. 2 pencils that sat neatly on a granite countertop, we each filled out applications, alarmingly easy forms – asI'm too insecure for anything but monogamy and, frankly, too lazy to be a single mom. But why did we have to get married? straightforward as a sandwich order. Then we stood between velvet ropes with the other couples waiting their turns to answer questions from the clerks seated like bank tellers behind bullet-proof windows. I had expected raucous and raunchy, but nobody was even drunk. Only the clerks spoke above a whisper. We were the only ones who brought children.
Maybe it was the weight of my sleeping baby, who was strapped to me in a sling, or the fact that her sister was yanking my arm, but I felt overwhelmed and weak and bothered by what all of this meant. I could already imagine that cruel twist of fate, where officially tying the knot winds up pulling us apart.
I mean, even for perfect matches, long-term commitment is a gamble, something like a 50-50 chance it will last as long as promised. And Wayne and I were hardly perfect. In the years of our sham marriage, we had amassed enough emotional baggage to fill a storage closet. We are open with our anger yet hurt when it gets expressed. I blow up, he scowls; I can't let something drop, he turns and walks away. "I'm sorry" feels like losing. We tiptoe around an assortment of hurt feelings, resentments and petty grievances over the usual: sex, money, who does more laundry (definitely me). I am defensive when Wayne brings up the time I had let Dark Depression and her best friend Lost Libido move in before we had kids. He fears return visits and sometimes sees their shadows when they aren't even around. I get pissed at him for being pissed, and pissed at him for not caring that I'm pissed. We were hardly a sure thing. In Vegas-speak, were we talking any better than house odds?
I rocked the baby and watched a bride at window No. 3. She pushed a check into the silver trench that separated her from the clerk and asked her fiancé whether to spend $20 on the unofficial but decorative marriage license. He shrugged, ran a comb through his thick hair, looked away. I gave them near certain odds on divorce by this time next year.
At window No. 10, a couple dressed in matching tropical prints answered the questions earnestly and in sync. They looked alike, they sounded alike, they turned down the marriage license memorabilia. I figured odds were even that they would still be together after five years.
©2007 Madeline Holler and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Madeline Holler is a writer and mother of two. She lives in Long Beach, California. |
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