I've Probably Made A Mistake In Getting Married

Okay, so picture this: me, trying to assemble a flat-pack bookshelf. Sounds harmless, right? Wrong. Absolutely catastrophic. It started with optimistic humming, then devolved into cursing that would make a sailor blush, and ended with me contemplating whether I could just live amongst the unassembled particleboard. My partner, bless their heart, tried to help, but our differing interpretations of the instructions led to, shall we say, a heated discussion. A discussion that concluded with me uttering the phrase, "Maybe we just weren't meant to assemble furniture together... maybe we weren't meant to be together at all!"

Dramatic, I know. But in that moment, surrounded by splintered wood and allen wrenches, a terrifying thought wormed its way into my brain: Have I made a mistake getting married?

Let me clarify, before you start drafting divorce papers in your head for me. I love my spouse. I really do. They’re kind, funny, and tolerate my obsession with true crime podcasts. (A quality in itself, honestly). But lately, I've been having these… these moments of doubt. Big, flashing neon sign moments of doubt.

You know, the kind that make you question everything? The kind that makes you stalk old high school crushes on Facebook? (Okay, maybe that's just me. Don't judge).

It's not like there's one glaring, obvious reason why I'm feeling this way. There's no cheating, no financial ruin, no secret gambling addiction (…that I’m aware of). It's more like a thousand tiny, irritating things that have slowly accumulated over time. The way they load the dishwasher (incorrectly, obviously). The sound they make when they chew. The fact that they still haven't fixed that leaky faucet. All those little things get amplified somehow, and suddenly, I'm questioning the very fabric of our existence.

And honestly? I feel like a horrible person for even thinking this way. Like, I signed up for “for better or for worse,” and now I’m whining about… dishwashers? Seriously? Get a grip, me.

But I can’t help but wonder if this is normal. Are all married people secretly contemplating their life choices while pretending to enjoy couples brunch? Is everyone just faking it until they make it? Is there some secret society of married people who meet in dimly lit basements to commiserate about their regrets? (If so, sign me up!).

I’ve been doing some soul-searching (aka scrolling through Pinterest for inspirational quotes), and I think I've pinpointed part of the problem. We've gotten comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe. We’re in a routine, a predictable rhythm of work, dinner, Netflix, sleep, repeat. The spark, that initial crazy, head-over-heels feeling, has…dimmed. Significantly.

And maybe that’s okay? Maybe that's just what happens in long-term relationships. Maybe the fiery passion fades into a warm, comforting ember. But what if I want the fire back? What if I'm chasing a fairytale that doesn't exist?

I know I need to talk to my partner. Open communication, blah, blah, blah. But that’s the scary part, isn’t it? What if voicing these doubts makes them… real? What if they feel the same way? What if the bookshelf incident was just a symptom of a much deeper, more fundamental incompatibility?

So, yeah. I’ve probably made a mistake. Or maybe I haven't. Maybe this is just a temporary blip, a mid-marriage crisis fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep. (Tell me I’m right! Please!).

Either way, I figured putting it all out there, admitting that I’m not perfect and that marriage is hard, might be a good first step. Plus, who knows? Maybe someone else out there is feeling the same way and needs to know they’re not alone. (Misery loves company, right? Just kidding… mostly).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dishwasher to aggressively unload. And a partner to avoid eye contact with. Wish me luck!

P.S. If anyone has tips for rekindling the spark, please share in the comments. I’m desperate. And also, anyone know a good carpenter? My bookshelf is still in pieces.