Quotes About Marriage

because at this point of our marriage, I was so used to being angry with her, it felt almost enjoyable, like gnawing on a cuticle: You know you should stop, that it doesn't really feel as good as you think, but you can't quit grinding away.

What a generous thing that is, I realize, for a husband to try to make his wife laugh.

They would not be good for marital advice: They are soul mates, remember? They are all peaks, no valleys – a single, infinite burst of marital ecstasy. I can't tell them I am screwing up the one thing I have left: my marriage. They'd somehow write another book, a fictional rebuke in which Amazing Amy celebrated the most fantastic, fulfilling, bump-free little marriage ever . . . because she put her mind to it.

It was commonly known that Annabelle absolutely hated her husband's last name—she even crumpled up her nose when she said it. It never occurred to her that she didn't have to take it.

I hated Nick for being surprised when I became me. I hated him for not knowing it had to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied. He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me.

Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get glimpses of Go's thoughts in a sentence here or there. It's funny, I can't quite get a bead on her, like who she really is. And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And: There's a difference between really loving someone and loving the idea of her. And finally: The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back

Se me ha ocurrido regalarle a Nick un bonito par de esposas, pero puede que todavía no le parezca divertido.

I had a new persona, not of my choosing. I was Average Dumb Woman Married to Average Shitty Man. He had single-handedly de-amazed Amazing Amy.

My dad had limitations. That's what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm. I doubt my sister will ever marry: If she's sad or upset or angry, she needs to be alone—she fears a man dismissing her womanly tears.

I remained mostly silent. I was thinking my own questions, the same questions I'd thought for years, the ominous refrain of our marriage: What are you thinking, Amy? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?

Así que puede amarme sinceramente y por libre elección, tal como lo hizo en otro tiempo, o le pondré el yugo y le obligaré a ser el hombre con el que me casé. Estoy harta de tener que aguantar sus gilipolleces.

Paper is first year,' I said. At the end of Year One's unexpectedly wrenching treasure hunt, Amy presented me with a set of posh stationery, my initials embossed at the top, the paper so creamy I expected my fingers to come away moist. In return, I'd presented my wife with a bright red dime-store paper kite, picturing the park, picnics, warm summer gusts. Neither of us liked our presents; we's each have preferred the other's. It was a reverse O. Henry.

I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you> What have we done to each other? What will we do?

We will have a happy marriage if it kills him.

My husband is the most loyal man on this planet until he's not.

My wife was crazy. I was married to a crazy woman. It's every asshole's mantra: I married a psycho bitch. But I got a small, nasty bite of gratification: I really did marry a genuine, bona fide psycho bitch. Nick, meet your wife: the world's foremost mindfucker. I was not as big an asshole as I'd thought. An asshole, yes, but not on a grandiose scale.

I worry I am coming perilously close to violating both of those promises. But still. It is our third wedding anniversary and I am alone in our apartment, my face all mask-tight from tears because, well, because: Just this afternoon, I get a voice mail from Nick, and I already know it's going to be bad, I know

The ones who are not soul-mated—the ones who have settled—are even more dismissive of my singleness: It's not that hard to find someone to marry, they say. No relationship is perfect, they say—they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation—yes, honey, okay, honey—is the same as concord.

It's every asshole's mantra: I married a psycho bitch. But I got a small, nasty bite of gratification: I really did marry a genuine, bona fide psycho bitch. Nick, meet your wife: the world's foremost mindfucker.

How odd, that I ruined my marriage over that little girl with whom I had nothing in common except that we both liked a good laugh and a cold beer after sex.

Sensmoralen i historien var: Mr Binks var ett otroget svin som stoppade kuken båda här och där, men du förstår, äktenskapet är en kompromiss.

I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?

supongo que para eso están los maridos. Para señalar lo que no somos capaces de ver por nosotras mismas, incluso aunque hagan falta cinco años.

One should never marry a man who doesn't own a decent set of scissors.