I think the churchy side of the camp says I’m supposed to tell you marriage is great. It’s pretty, and passionate, and playful. Your husband is your leader, woman. You must submit, woman. You must dote, woman.

I think the American side of the camp says I’m supposed to tell you marriage is a joke. It’s petty, and pitiful, and perishable. Your husband is a dimwit, woman. You must be stronger, woman. You must laugh at him, woman.

I’ve rolled out my sleeping bag on both sides in my short six years of experience. It’s like you might be able to wiggle your way into a comfortable spot, but when your shoulder goes numb and you try to turn over, you roll onto sharp rocks and twigs and godknowswhatelse and you let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor blush. Not that I would know. (I do…