posted May 07, 2003 03:01 PM         

Why I do, and do, and do

By DYLAN G. DYLAN

I received a lovely gift just in time for Valentine’s Day—a divorce. And now I fear the worst. This, you see, was my third divorce.

Yeah, that’s right, my third. I’m what you might call a Serial Husband, which is to say I’ve been married so often I have rice wounds. And therein lies my fear. For some reason, I just can’t stay single, no matter how hard I try.

The last time I was unmarried, for example, my girlfriend told me she’d never accept anything less than a two-karat diamond ring from any man. So, I bought her a ring and put two baby carrots in the box. I placed it under her pillow, knowing she’d discover it when we went to bed that night. Sure enough, her hand nudged the box as she snuggled in under the covers.

“What’s this?” she asked as she reached under the pillow and withdrew the box.

“I don’t know,” I responded in mock surprise. “Open it and see.”

She opened the box and looked at the ring and the two carrots. Then she looked at me, her eyes as wide as light bulbs and dancing with delight.

“Is this what I think it is?” she gushed.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the two-carrot ring you always wanted.”

I was laughing. She wasn’t.

To me, it was a joke, but she took it as a marriage proposal, and presto! I was hitched again.

Which is why I now fear the worst. I mean, as long as I was still legally wed to Miss Two-Carrots, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in the Arizona sun that I could marry again. It didn’t matter how smitten I might have become with a fair maiden (or her with me), I simply could not stroll down the aisle with her, and any talk of nuptials was a moot point. All I had to say was, “Sorry, love, but technically and in the eyes of the law, I’m married. Can’t do it. Gotta go now.”

What a perfect safety net. What an escape hatch. What a drag that I no longer can go there.

Fact is, although I’m freshly divorced from Miss Two-Carrots and should be no more interested in taking a fourth bride than Osama bin Laden would be in singing the Star Spangled Banner at the New York Yankees’ home opener, I already feel myself weakening. Why, just the other day I was joking and laughing with the lovely ladies in the high estrogen zone (read: office) at work, when I blurted out the unthinkable.

“You women are so much fun,” I said, “I think I’ll get married again.”

They laughed, but clearly this was a great and loud cry for help from a man who has been married three times too many. So, I immediately dialed the Serial Husband Society crisis line (1-800-NO-BRIDE) and talked to a counsellor.

“I’m Dylan,” I told him. “I’m a husbandholic and I just used the ‘M’ word.”

“How long have you been single?” he asked.

“About an hour.”

“Don’t move! Do . . . not . . . move!”

In short time, the Serial Husband Society paramedics arrived to revive me by spraying the pungent scent of “eau du alimony” under my nose, but, I must say, it might have been too late. That is to say, there just might not be a cure for husbandholicism, and now I worry about my dear, ol’ mother.

When I advised mom that my divorce was to become final and official on February 8, she advanced some sage advice.

“Just don’t do anything stupid like get married again,” said Mom. “But you can have a girlfriend.”

Terrific. I’m a 51-year-old man and my mother has given me permission to date. Don’t I feel sooooo special.

The thing is, Mom simply cannot understand people like me. She, after all, has been sharing her bed with the same man for fiftysomething years. Her other two sons, meanwhile, both took brides more than 20 years ago and remain with the same women. Ditto her only daughter, who washed ashore with a navy guy in the late ’80s—they’re still sailing the high seas (in the conjugal sense).

Good for them, I say. Bravo. But where does that leave me? As far as marriage-ability goes, I suck. I’m not nearly as bad as Liz Taylor or Larry King, but my fear is that there’s one more “I do” in me. But would that be so bad? Would it really? What really scares me is that anyone stupid enough to get married three times is stupid enough to get married four times.

Whatever, I hope you and your Valentine have a swell day on the 14th of February. Do something sweet for him or her. As for me, I’ll probably just go grocery shopping.

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea. I mean, the grocery store is, apparently, a great place to meet women. And if I were to meet someone in front of the baby carrots counter, well . . . would wedding bells be far behind? M