The day of our wedding was like one out of a storybook illustration. The moor was impossibly green and the fragrance of the heather intoxicating. I trembled at the sight of my bride approaching, diaphanous in white against the endless fields and sky. We were finally together, my matchless beauty and me, under the loving embrace of God and nature and family. I was certain that I could die that day in the abject happiness of loving her, even if only for a little while.
It was just like the story you've heard, except that the moor was really the county recorder's office, and its lovely green only a strip of median and the parking lot, and though she did wear white, she was advised against doing so. And also, the only family members in attendance were two of her terrible sisters since Zeus and Mnemosyne refused to come. Other than that, everything was exactly the same. The Muse was just as beautiful as described—on our wedding day, at least—and I still remember the exquisite pleasure in the knowledge that her ex-boyfriends could suck it, for from then on she would provide inspiration to only me.
But she's much chubbier now.
My friends all say that women always put on weight once they're married, both spouses do. It's like you don't have to impress anyone anymore and you just settle for the lowest common denominator of the least fit of the two. But, she's a goddess, for Zeus's sake! Anyways, I still look pretty much the same as I have since college.
She was never skinny. I don't want skinny. I mean those cola-bottle curves were one of the best things about her. Okay, so now it's like those curves are in the wrong places. Or the bottle got much bigger. And she's wearing those dresses with the waistline really high up. You know, just under her boobs... the kind pregnant women wear? Man, it makes things so much worse. I know what you're thinking. She's definitely not pregnant. At least that would be something.
The thing is, I'd used to come up with the most awesome inspirations whenever she was there. It was like I was my best self when she was in the apartment. Now, I just have ideas about getting her a friggin' gym membership. But I don't think she'd take it in the spirit with which it was intended.
Just this morning, she went totally ballistic when I commented on her muffin top. I thought her wrath might be worth it, as long as it got her motivated to get back in shape.
Also, she always goes for the brown gravy when she's upset.
She's making poutine now to make herself feel better. I can't go in the kitchen. Just one look at that gooey plate—a big brown pile all lumpy with cheese curds—and I'll lose it.
I cannot piss her off again. Because I do love her. And I can't make rent without her.