Love Isn't Always a One-Way Door

If you lived in my family, you might wind up a little skeptical about Valentine's Day and other heady romantic notions. To put it bluntly, the romance statistics for the female gender in my family are a grim reminder that love is a many splintered thing. The statistics are as follows. Read them and weep:

There are six females in my immediate family - myself, three sisters, my mother and my daughter. Between us, there have been 13 marriages, three cohabitations, and one impromptu Las Vegas chapel nuptial. Of the thirteen marriages, there have been five divorces and two annulments. (In the interest of full disclosure, both annulments were mine.) One of the baker's dozen matrimony's lasted only six weeks. Another lasted only two, due to a death. The three cohabitations failed, one of which ended with the bride-to-be being stood up at the alter and later discovering that her live-in was also living-in part-time with someone else; and the Vegas couple hasn't seen each other since "the stupidest thing I ever did," as the bride put it, that moonstruck night12 years ago. (FYI, the expression, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" does not apply to impromptu 3 a.m. alcohol-induced chapel betrothals. Marital contracts follow you back to Wisconsin - or whatever other state you happen to live in.)

As dismal as our happily-ever-after statistics may seem, our dating success rate is not much better. I'm convinced that most of our collective marriages were simply an avenue of refuge from the terrifying practice of dating - particularly those guys like the one my sister dated who she found standing in her kitchen wearing only his socks on their second date. He was later found to have a drug problem.

Then there was the guy from Chicago who shot himself after I declined to go on a second date with him. He lived - but it somehow didn't convince me to go out with him again.

But no one compares to the angry date I accidentally caused to get stuck in a revolving door with me and three large suitcases in Chicago back in 1978. It was the day I learned the only-one-person-to-a-revolving-door-compartment rule - especially if you are carrying luggage - and that some guys lose their sense of humor pretty darn fast when they suddenly find a Samsonite trunk jammed between their knees from behind when they're trying to move through a revolving door while also carrying a suitcase in each arm. I know this because once we finally penguin-walked our way to the other side, my date (who had given me ride to Loyola University after dinner where I was to attend a week-long seminar) burst out, panting, hurled my suitcase down the lobby hallway floor like bowling balls, and I never saw him again.

Except in my worst nightmares when I wake up and for a dreamy hazy second think I'm single again.

Yeah, marriage may not be a joy ride, but at least it's not like being stuck in a revolving door.

Although in this family, you can't really say that.