When I read the title of James Braly’s Life in a Marital Institution: 20 Years of Monogamy in One Terrifying Memoir, I thought I was about to embark on a rollicking ride, a voyeuristic opportunity to enjoy the maddening imperfections of someone else’s relationship for a change. Misery loves company, right? The inside of the jacket flap offers "modern adventures in extended breast feeding, co-sleeping," and promises the inside scoop on cumin-roasted placenta. All of this was enough to get jaded, anti-organic people like myself good and revved up.
But what starts out as a ‘you-must-be-joking’ account of ‘she did what??’ soon becomes a portrait of the dysfunctional, yet oddly endearing family life into which Mr. Braly was born. With one sister a high-strung control freak and the other a cheeky, once hard-living druggy darling facing mortality with, ultimately, her own deathbed wedding, to name a few 'colorful' family members, you begin to forget the "institutional" play on words and are left with a single reference to the insanity that has been Braly’s original family life.
Meanwhile, bits and pieces of Braly's marital life seem only to be sprinkled throughout the narrative in relatively limited engagements, and, while the scenes Braly paints of his own family dynamics portray the most hilarious, eccentric, and oftentimes poignant moments, it is the accounts of his own marriage, and how it evolved over the years, that feels in short supply.