I always said I would never get married.

Conveniently, no one ever proposed to me, either.

Then when I hit middle age, a bunch of my female friends and acquaintances tied the knot.

One (I’m sorry but… extremely unlikely) wedding in particular shoved my ego over an emotional cliff.

“SHE’s married and I’m not!” I heard myself wail in Arnie’s general direction.

He and I had been together for years and purchased a condo (and a beloved cat) together. Arnie didn’t see much point in getting married, but went along anyhow. After all, it meant a week-long trip to Las Vegas.

I definitely got the better part of this deal.

Arnie is smart, funny, hard working, honest to a fault, and only watches sports on TV every four years.

Whereas I can’t cook, still don’t quiet understand the concept of “dusting,” am a temperamental artiste, and look like the love child of Frodo and Hillary Clinton.

So why (besides inertia, and fear of a heated cat custody battle) is Arnie still around?

(At least, until he reads this.)