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When we promise to always want the same person, and all that accompanies them, we are throwing dice that will not necessarily land where we intend. Or perhaps we have taken a gamble on ourselves, only to realize that when we are shoved like fingers into wedding bands, we begin to throb under the constriction. Sometimes us women fuck up: we have one-night stands or protracted affairs or perhaps kiss a random person in an out-of-town bar. Whatever American culture would have us believe, infidelity is not necessarily a relationship’s death knell. I would never diminish the toll infidelity can take, but I also refuse to diminish myself for having been, as it were, unfaithful. No woman’s character begins and ends with a solitary oath, and her self-possession cannot be so swiftly denied. Our fingers were not crafted so that they could be cinched by wedding bands. Whatever symbolism we embrace, or promises we utter, these are choices that must conform to our desires, fragmented, fraught, and contradictory though they may be. I say that a woman’s volatility is her prerogative, and that her happiness is not for others to adjudicate. Too Much: How Victorian Constraints Still Bind Women Today

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