"Marriage makes you soft," I once told my female co-workers. This was a few years ago, during a very active hurricane season here in Florida.

My husband, Ed, was spending time in rehab, so it was up to me to get the house ready for an approaching storm. I was not handling the task very well.

I'd been doing okay working full-time at a new job, taking care of our many pets and, when I was permitted, driving 15 miles through traffic to visit Ed. But I quickly wore myself out hauling in the lawn furniture, the plants, the grill and all the other stuff we kept outside.

In a hurricane, that stuff becomes projectiles.

And then there was that little matter of the steel storm panels, the ones that are supposed to be secured across the sliding glass door. I'd donned high-top sneakers and leather work gloves to give it the old college try, but by the time I'd hauled 3 of the 12 heavy panels from storage, I was exhausted.

Surprised and frustrated to find that I really couldn't do it all, all by myself, I burst into bitter tears.

Surely I had not been such a wuss before I became a wife.

Wuss or no, I still had to secure the house.

The next morning, as insistent breezes announced the proximity of the storm, I was back at it, determinedly ferrying the storm panels to the front of the house. Two of my neighbors, Bob and Joe, were outside, so I stopped for a few minutes to chat. As I prepared to get back to work, Bob asked, "Do you need some help?"

Do I what?

I almost said no. I'd always thought of myself as independent and completely capable. But common sense prevailed.

Bob and I got the panels up in a matter of minutes, during which I realized it is a two-person job. Duh.

When we finished, I barely managed to keep from crying as I thanked him profusely.

"It's nothing," he said. "That's what neighbors do."

I just spent a week with the longest-married couple I know, my parents. The last morning I was there, my eyes fell on a pair of photos I've seen a million times, black-and-white shots of each of them when they were in their 20s. Aside from the fact that they were both drop-dead gorgeous, I was struck by their confident smiles.

Clearly there was nothing those two couldn't handle, including 59 years of marriage — and counting.

"I should have left him years ago," my mother said once. "But I didn't think y'all should be without your father."

Now she fears she set a bad example for me. I married a man much like my father, though my dad never drank to excess. And I remember being shocked when I noticed my easygoing brother behaving, with the woman he married (and divorced), much like our father, who never got over being an Army sergeant.

On the other hand, who knows? If they had divorced, maybe I would have been something like one of those confused teen mothers who had a baby in the belief that there would always be someone to love her.

As much as I once looked forward to having kids with Ed, I'm equally grateful now that our family consisted solely of animals. Anyone divorcing with children gets my special prayers.

If the Sondra I am now could advise my mother of 35 years ago, I think I'd tell her that the most important model she could have set for me was to be a happy person.

I married quite late.

I used to say that my mother was married and it didn't look like she was having much fun.

But marry I did, just like Mom, sort of. I realized early on in my separation that I needed to be careful not to divorce my husband just because my mother never divorced hers.

My visit back home reminds me that I should be equally careful not to stay married just because she did.

Let me tell you about how we got our cat. She's a really pretty long haired cat that we obtained from the local animal shelter a few months ago after relentless requests from our older daughter for a family pet.

With everything so up in the air lately with regards to our family situation I was really apprehensive about getting a family pet, but as I said, my daughter was relentless.

It turns out that I'm allergic to cats. I had cats growing up and at some points in my adult years, but something about this cat makes me sneeze and cough as though I was rolling around in oleander bushes (something I really am allergic to).

When it became apparent that I can only spend limited time with this cat before my eyes start watering and my throat starts itching, the chore of brushing the cat's long fur falls on my husband. The kids aren't quite gentle enough yet for this delicate task, and when I do it I feel simply miserable afterwards even when I pop an allergy pill beforehand.

So now let me tell you about how our cat looks nowadays: She walks around with knots all over her fur, occasionally stopping to meow and pick at the lumps of matted fur that have developed on various spots of her body.

"Have you been brushing the cat's fur?" I'll ask my husband.

"I've been too busy," is his reply as he flips through the television channels.

"Will you please brush her out tonight?" I ask.

"Sure," he says, and then goes back to watching TV.

Sometimes he'll brush her, and sometimes he won't. I usually winds up taking the scissors to the tangles in her fur and cutting them out because she's obviously uncomfortable.

That poor cat didn't know what she was getting herself into when she came home with us.

This came in email from my friend Jan: "My husband, being unhappy with my mood swings, bought me a mood ring the other day. We've discovered that, when I'm in a good mood, it turns green. When I'm in a bad mood, it leaves a damn big red mark on his forehead.

"Maybe next time he'll buy me a diamond."

"That's what you get for having a husband," I replied, once I stopped laughing.

But then, since I'm so smart, what do I get out of not having one, or trying not to, anyway?

I remember a conversation I had with a colleague before I married Ed. My colleague had split from his wife of many years after learning of her affair. (Ouch!)

He asked me, "Sondra, you've been single for a long time. How do you stand it?"

How did I stand it?

First off, I told him, it's incumbent on us to capitalize on whatever state we're in.

The good thing about being single, I told him, is that I owed no one any explanations, or even any thought, about how I lived my life: when and where I worked, how to spend or save my money.

I could stay up all night watching old movies while eating crackers in bed, then hop on a flight to wherever suited my mood, and my finances.

I made it sound good, and you know what? It is good.

Now here I am on the other side. I'm pretty sure I'd feel different if I had kids instead of pets. And money is definitely tight in this early-post-Ed era: no more cable TV, which means I have a lot fewer movie all-nighters. Or crackers.

Right now, a spur-of-the-moment jaunt is likely to end in a local park.

But it is my life again, to do with as I please, and as best I can. I neither blame nor am beholden to anybody else for the way it works out.

You know, I'm not into diamonds. But if I want a ring, I can save up and buy the one I choose, rather than hope I like what somebody else picks out for me.

And that's good, too.

The last time I saw my therapist, the Good Doctor, she suggested I was procrastinating about filing for divorce from Ed. A week later I’m not a millimeter closer to being the unmarried woman I’ve acted like these last 10 months.

So maybe she’s right.

But why would I drag my feet?

There is the health insurance. That’s no small thing for a person of modest means with several pre-existing conditions, all well controlled thanks to … Ed’s health insurance.

And it’s in my nature to procrastinate. That is, as we alcoholics call them, one of my character defects.

There is another character defect common to alcoholics and other addicts: people pleasing.

Those of us afflicted with this one want everyone to be happy. If there’s going to be a problem, we certainly don’t want to be the ones causing it. And my husband does not want to get divorced.

Back in the fall of 2000 I stood up in front of the judge and our families and our friends and God and everybody and said that it was me and this guy, now and forever more.

I was mistaken.

Intellectually I’ve understood and acted on that, but emotionally maybe I’m still not quite there.

I married a boy startlingly like the boy who married dear old mom, though my husband is an alcoholic and my father is not. Dear old mom is still married to dear old dad, 59 often-uncomfortable years later. This is not what I want.

Indeed, it’s not what she wants for me.

The Good Doctor assures me that it’s OK to fail; that’s something human beings do.

Of course I wish my marriage hadn’t failed. But it did.

I’m going to spend a few days with my folks. Perhaps seeing them in action will inspire me to get it in gear and set not only Ed but myself free.

I hadn't had any time off in 15 days and was really looking forward to my weekend as I got into my car to leave work. I picked Adrian up from daycare and he was happier than ever to see me.

He gave me this huge smile and came rushing toward me, arms wide open. That boy makes my heart melt. Every time I see him it's magical.

We went home, had dinner, and crashed early with plans to meet some friends at the beach the next day. The next morning, birds were singing and the sun was shining.

We arrived at the beach, got a prime spot, and Adrian began to play in the sand as I read a magazine. Watching my sweet little boy, I reflected on how truly blessed I am.

It was shaping up to be a fabulous day.

Then, mid-afternoon, Adrian plopped down in my lap so I could put sunscreen on him.

That's when I saw it — a nasty, whitish bug running around in my son's hair. I gasped and parted his beautiful blond locks to reveal another one ... and then another.

At that point, I shouted an expletive, and called my friend Rachel over. She confirmed it. Adrian had head lice.

Gross.

So, the day at the beach was now ruined. I was in hysterics and on the phone calling Adrian's doctor. Rachel was picking through my really thick, really long hair, in search of the disgusting bugs. She didn't find any.

The doctor told me the name of what to put on my son's head, and added that I should calm down. I shoved Adrian in the car and we drove to the drugstore.

I got the treatment and read the directions, which say that it's ideal to have someone (a buddy) look through your hair with a magnifying glass to locate and remove any of the nits, or little eggs.

Well, I'm Adrian's lice buddy, but who is mine? No one, that's who.

Rachel lives way too far away, and there's no way in hell I'm calling up anyone else and asking them to remove lice eggs from my hair.

What's a single mom to do?

It’s been a year now since I determined I could not go on living with my husband, Ed. While he was the first one to bring up the D-word, he is also the one who does not want to get divorced.

Once I finally got him out of the house (my house, thank you very much; I bought it a few years before we married), I devoted myself to scrambling for money to keep body, soul, and animal family together.

I soon realized that divorce, with its lawyers and fees, was a luxury. And Ed, never a financial genius, said he didn’t have the funds either.

He did email me a proposed settlement agreement; I think he found a template on the Internet.

We have no kids and my lawyer tells me our pets are considered chattel (I’m sorry; anybody who looks to me for food and shelter and doesn’t work is a dependent).

I wasn’t seeking alimony and he wasn’t planning to battle over the house. Still, like any good divorcing couple, we managed to oppose each other.

I wanted to keep the health insurance he got through work, at least for a while; he would not sign a quitclaim deed formally relinquishing any interest in the house, until the divorce was final.

I was more concerned about the health insurance. I could keep that by just keeping quiet, so I did.

But after I tapped my retirement account to cover all the things I hadn’t earned earning enough to handle, I remembered that I’d also meant to get divorced.

I got out of bed in the middle of the night and emailed Ed, asking how he thought we should go forward.

Then it was his turn to keep quiet.

Weeks passed without a word from him.

I felt I’d done my part for the present, but my therapist thought I was procrastinating.

Imagine.

I said I’d get in touch with Ed, ask what he wanted to do. “Why are you giving this back to him?!” she demanded.

I thought about it briefly before replying.

“Habit.”

Just how central a role do in-laws play in some women’s decisions to stay or go? For 27-year-old Nancy from Ontario, Canada, it couldn’t be simpler. “I considered leaving both of my husbands because of their mothers, quite frankly,” she said.

Indeed, a nasty in-law can be a catalyst for departure. “My current husband is a dream, but if his mother opens her mouth one more time I swear I will walk out until she is dead, and then return after the funeral like it was all an unpleasant dream,” she says.

“I wish I was joking.”

To give up on Mr. Right because of his mother would be a tragedy. On the other hand, three husbands whose mothers drive her crazy? That’s at least bad luck.

Tracy, a 34-year-old Midwesterner, suspects that a man who can’t keep his mother at bay — and out of the most important moments in their lives — might not be worth the trouble.

Her doubts about her husband started just before the birth of their first child.

“There was no way in God’s green Earth that I was going to allow his mom into the delivery room. He assured me he would tell her.”

But he didn’t, and his mother, who had made the long-distance trip just for the occasion, had other ideas.

“You’re going to have to let go of that modesty,” her mother-in-law harped early in Tracy’s labor.

In the end, Tracy had a nurse announce that all guests must leave the room.

Situation resolved.

“But now his mother reminds me of the abrupt realization I had that my husband wasn’t going to stand up for me,” she says, “even when it was incredibly important.”

The feelings about her mother-in-law persisted, and Tracy and her husband are pursuing marriage counseling to help them work through everything.

Last, Part III – Inlaws and Keeping a Marriage Together