Years later I asked her why she married me.

     "I was pushing 30 and I didn't think anyone was going to ask me."

     So she chose me. She settled on a fixer-upper.

     We met at a wedding. An old friend of mine was her cousin.  I used to really enjoy weddings. Single girls at weddings were low-hanging fruit. But as years went by there weren't as many. Eventually it had to come to this. She and I were the only singles. We danced. We had gone to the same grade school. I didn't think much of it. She later told me she made the decision that night.

     I was a washed out journalist waiting tables at a sort of sit-down fast-food very inexpensive mexican restaurant where you jacked up check averages by selling truly awful margaritas. Even I wouldn't drink them. I considered the girls a sort of job benefit.

     I kept dating Adele along with the others. She was different. Smart. Had a real career. Maybe if I hung out with her I would be smart and get a real job.

     After we dated a while there was a problem. I picked her up. We went to my favorite bar. After two drinks she said, "So what are we going to do tonight?"

     I was speechless. We were doing it. What else was there? I had clearly reached out of my league and here was the inevitable result. Hey, I hadn't made any promises. No one was going to tie me down. I liked waitresses. Who does this girl think she is? Go marry an accountant if you want a boring-ass life. Not me.

     I said nothing. Let her figure it out.

     We were saved that summer, 1983, by the Chicago White Sox. They put on new uniforms, hired a few free agents and homered their way to a division title. We were both Sox fans. This gave us something to do. We weren't going to a bar to drink. We were going to a bar to watch the Sox.

     But I still got questions from her. I was 27 years old. What was I going to do with myself when I grew up? And when was this going to happen? I usually responded by pointing out Greg Luzinski's batting average against left-handers during night games with the wind blowing out and a runner on second.

     We went on like this. I saw waitresses less and Adele more. Soon enough she was it. I shared an apartment with a friend. She lived with her parents.

     The Sox cratered the following year so I had to find "something to do" on our dates. Fortunately the country was awash in comedy clubs at the time. Fairly inexpensive entertainment that was thank God held in bars. A staple of these acts then and now was to get someone on stage and make them look stupid. One night the comic picks Adele. The trick he pulled was to get her to squeeze an object in front of her. It caused her nipples to pop up visibly. The crowd thought it was great. I was embarrassed for her but frozen from an act of nobility like grabbing her off the stage and punching the guy. I was the crowd. I had been to Mardi Gras. My regular bar had Wet T-Shirt nights. What kinda broad doesn't get tit jokes?

     We left for someplace quiet. She still hadn't gotten it. I explained.

     "Most girls I know wouldn't have had a problem with that," I said.  "That's why I want to marry you."

     Years later when I tried to quit drinking someone asked me if I felt alone in a crowd.

     Always.

     Then you are one of us.

     That night it was Adele or the crowd. I could hide my loneliness in a crowd. Or I could seize the last speck on humanity in my besotted soul and pull myself out of this river of self-loathing before I drowned.

     This was all wrong of course. To believe marriage will cause one's addictions to go away is, in a tragic way, comic. It is delusional. Nevertheless, we were married Oct. 25, 1986. I started treatment in 1987. And here we are.