She wasn’t exactly a supermodel, but she wasn’t ugly. Thirty pounds overweight with frumpy brown hair in waves like a crooked plate of spaghetti, and a fondness for unflattering clothing in every possible shade of pink. She stood five feet tall and looked up at me through some ridiculously stylish eyeglasses with an adorable smile.

I’d never felt so indifferent about a woman before.

The day she told me she loved me, I realized I had left my free will under a stack of self-help books by Dale Carnegie and Dr. Phil. Mission accomplished: I read the instructions and applied them successfully and I was now a sensitive, relatable Good Listener. Problem is, Myra interpreted the new me as some sort of mysterious metro-flirt, and it’s hard to stop a train.

And then there was her dad. An old Church of Christ minister who wanted only to see his daughter happy and settled down for once with a nice young man. He offered to marry us. I was terribly respectful.

A marriage…my marriage! To Myra. I should have spoken up.