I did something some people considered stupid several months ago. I got married. And yes, it was to a woman. I checked this time.

In case you missed it, and you did, we got married in the enchanted and much overpriced land of the mouse, Walt Disney World. She looked wonderful, and I managed to suck in a 50-pound gut for an entire day while taking pictures. But it wasn’t always that happy. Poor Aron spent a year training me to walk upright and suck in that gut.

When my wife was just a wee girlfriend, she moved into my bachelor pad and started the transition. I had devolved since my last wife. I had managed to eat with only a spoon and a pocketknife out of whatever was on the counter at the time. Dishes? Paper plates and a Frisbee.

My bedroom consisted of clothes, TV, my porn machine (laptop), bookshelves of the greatest in ’80s movies, and a futon mattress on the floor. How I got a girl in there in the first place speaks volumes to my good looks and charm, or of the patience of my future wife to mold me.

The bathroom had gone from a place to cleanse the body and soul to a place where I was developing a cure for the common cold through the many different molds that were growing on the walls, shower, toilet, and the roaming mound of mildewed clothes on the floor. The plants, however, were well watered, but only because I was scared of the toilet and the many growths on it…

So when that scary day came and Aron got her house key, my life had to change again. I had to clean my closet out, because I had forgotten how much women like clean clothes and was unwilling to add to my moldy-clothes experiment in the bathroom.

Food started appearing in the refrigerator that was fresh and edible, yet food also started to disappear. My favorite jar of pickles that had been with me since the late ’90s was tossed aside so fresh milk and eggs could reside in its place of honor. The green material was no longer the year-old tuna-noodle casserole, but lettuce and cilantro.

My steady supply of spoons and mixing bowls for my cereal made way for plates and these implements with tines on the end, forks. Let me tell you, it was a tough month as she kept spraying me with the water bottle until I got the hang of that tool. (Hint to you bachelors: The pointy side goes in your mouth, not the other side.) That squirt bottle also broke me of watering the plants, wearing Hawaiian shirts, not wearing pants, and scratching myself and others in public.

A year and a half later, I now walk upright, my clothes match when she sees me dress, and I cook on the stove, have no plants that are still alive, and can see the floor of my bedroom and bathroom. But now I see that her training has over-trained me, as I have taken on the role of the toilet paper fairy.

I have lived my life with the mantra that the last person using the roll of toilet paper needs to replace it. It’s not hard: Just reach under the sink, on top of the tank, or even into the hanging thing on the side of the toilet with the other two rolls, and replace the empty one. Ten seconds, and I have timed it. Remember to make it roll out instead of in towards the wall. Get up, flush, and go on your merry way.

I have come to the realization that girls need to use some more squares to clean up than I do. However, this doesn’t diminish the fact that the roll still needs to be changed.

That’s where I swoop in. Once a week, as my sweetie sleeps, I slip into the bathroom and replace the five or so rolls that, I can only assume, were eaten throughout the week. I keep the stash in the closet, where no one could possibly find it, so I have a job every week. I don my special toilet paper fairy wings, made out of used cardboard tubes and the little scraps left on them, and change the empties out. The wings were given to me after several months of shock-collar training (although I won’t wear the special garbage-duty suit) once I mastered the act of not bitching about it as I change them out. Aron is now pimping me out to discretely change your rolls as you sleep, as long as you leave a dollar a roll in the toilet…

After only a year and a half of training, I went from breathing with my mouth open and dragging my knuckles as I walk to a refined, clothes-matching, toilet paper-changing man about the house. But Aron’s work is never done, as I watch her put coasters on the new coffee table and remove the last of the 2x4s and cinder blocks that resided in my apartment for the better part of a decade. Oh well, time for the shock collar and squirt bottle…