prenup

Matt actually did arrange to go to a lawyer, and took an hour or two off work, to secure the insisted-upon prenup a couple of weeks ago. He has been insisting on one, which I think is a) ridiculous, and b) insulting, though I agreed to sign it if it meant the world to him. (for the record, there were two things that I very, very much wanted HIM to do pre-wedding, one of which was go to premarital counseling with me, but he flatly refused. So there you go.)

It just makes my blood boil whenever it comes up. I feel like the language itself is a slap in the face of what marriage is. Yes, I know sometimes they don't work out for one reason or another. Obviously, things happen. (have I said all this before? Sorry. I feel like I'm repeating myself.) But to PLAN for things not to happen? When he asks me the necessary questions about it, and I hear myself saying, "Well, XY and Z if things don't work out," I just want to cut out my tongue. I DON'T WANT to be thinking about things not working out a month before we're going to get married! This is not a trial period, people! This is a permanent state! A holy and sacred covenant! (or whatever.) With our right hand, we're asking all the people we love best to be there, to be witnesses to it, to support us, etc.! And with our left hand, we're drafting a document that spells out what happens if we decide to break these vows! It disgusts me.

An unexpected bit of amusement has arisen from it. To backpedal a bit, Matt wants one in the first place because he has this (excessive, one perspective might say) desire to take care of everyone. He wants to make sure the townhouse he owns (the bank owns), where his mom lives, won't be cut in half by my divorcing, scheming self. Likewise, his dad has some land in southern Virginia tat he doesn't want his soon-to-be-ex-wife getting her greedy hands on, because his fiscally irresponsible brother will need somewhere to live once he's too old or bored to work his minimum-wage jobs any more. And I assure you, as I have assured him countless times, that, were things not to work out (AI! There it is again!), land in Virginia would be my last interest. My very last interest. "But you might want to sell it for the money," he counters. Um, yeah. Because I'm like that.

But then I have to remember that, yes, three years ago, I had planned to marry someone else and take "Matt's baby" (his mom's phrase) to Germany. Away from him. Times, and mentalities, were different then. But I have to remember, and respect, that it must've taken quite a leap of faith from Matt to try again with me. To give me a second chance. So, the least I could do, I suppose, is to sign a piece of paper that is worthless if things go the way they should. That says that I won't get things that I don't want, anyway.

Matt's had to ask me for some minimal information -- stuff that, as my fiance, he pretty much knows, anyway. What are my assets? How much is in my retirement account? Stuff like that. I don't understand all the ins and outs of prenuptial agreements, but it makes no sense to me to have to put down these amounts, anyway. They change. I get mine, he gets his. So what?

Back to the amusing part. According to Matt, each time he talks to the lawyer about this, at some point in the conversation, she says: "WHY are you doing this again? You guys don't own anything. You don't have anything (much) collectively. What's the point?"

Exactly. But if it puts his mind at peace to waste his time and money in this manner, I guess the least I can do is play along.