STRANGER THAN FICTION: MARRIED LIFE: FATTENING UP AND DUMBING DOWN

I never bounced a check before The Other Half slipped that wedding band onto my finger.

I'm not sure exactly when I began losing my mind.

It was probably about the time The Other Half and I stood in that Cape County Courthouse gazebo before our relatives, Judge Syler and God Almighty, and swore to love, honor and deeply respect one another until death do we part.

There wasn't any mention about parting with our willpower and ability to do math, but if I knew then what I know now, I'd have had the judge throw in a vow to stay the same weight from that day forward and faithfully balance the checkbook, no matter what movie is on TBS the day the bank statement arrives.

Since my wedding day, I've gone up two dress sizes, and I wasn't a small woman to begin with. Mr. Half walked into my office last week and shut the door behind him. He wanted to say goodbye before leaving on a business trip, plus ask a question.

"After we pay the bills and stuff, will we have much money left over this week?"

Enough, I told him. Why?

"Well, I need a new pair of jeans and a few dress pants."

I pointed out that his side of the closet boasts dress pants in 12 shades of khaki and 10 shades of olive.

"Yeah. But I can't breathe when I wear them. And I like to breathe."

My poor husband was finally experiencing what it's like to be me. I have clothes in my closet ranging from a size 12 to a size 26. I've never owned more than two pairs of jeans in any size because there was no telling whether I'd be bigger or smaller at the end of the month. (Usually bigger.)

They should do some kind of study on why married people gain weight. The nurse at my doctor's office just smiled and said not to worry about it -- it's a sign of contentment. Of course, she was extremely content, if you get my drift.

She's right. When you're single, you're always on the hunt. Any event is a chance to meet Mr. Right. Why sit around the house when the next Fabio might be working out at the gym? What if you miss him?

But when you have Mr. Right living in your home, there's not much call to leave. And when the honeymoon is over, a really good slice of cheesecake tends to be just as desirable as your man.

After my husband bought his "breathable" pants and left on his business trip last weekend, my urge to move around left me. I wore my bathrobe until 2 p.m. Saturday, when some friends called and invited me to a matinee. I made it into the shower and some nice lingerie by 6 p.m. Sunday, anticipating my beloved's return. I wanted him to remember how voluptuous I am and wonder how he could have spent two nights without me.

"Hey, Sugar," I purred as he walked through the door. "You miss me?"

"For heaven's sake!" he replied. "Didn't we just do this last week?"

I can stand the fattening up I've experienced, but the dumbing down is getting a little hard to take.

Lord help me, my income is better than it ever has been before, but I am bouncing at least one check a week. And I don't know why.

When I was single, I sat down and balanced my checkbook to the penny. I was a wreck if it didn't come out right. Even my mother's gentle comforting -- "Heidi, just adjust your checkbook to what the bank has. It will be OK" -- meant nothing to me.

After my first year of marriage, I took Mom's advice. By my second year, I was letting the statements pile up for three months before balancing the checkbook.

Now I just say, "Sweetie, don't write any more checks. Some yo-yo at the bank says we're out of money."

I put things down and can't find them. I spend large parts of my day yelling, "I JUST HAD IT IN MY HAND!!!"

The office manager, a devout Catholic, taught me a rhyme: "Please, St. Anthony, look around. There's something important that needs to be found."

If I thought that prayer would work consistently, I'd convert in a heartbeat.

Mr. Half refuses to take over the bills and checkbook. He's too smart for that -- it's so much easier to blame me when things go wrong. In fact, he's probably smarter than ever before in his whole life. Meanwhile, I can't think of a four-letter word meaning "stupid."

My theory: He's sucking out my brain power through the marriage bond.

Sure, I can diet. But how do you get your smarts back?

P.S. The Idjit Awards return next week.

Heidi Neiland is a former staff writer who lives in Pensacola, Fla.