had begun.
And, in some ways, I guess it could have been all right. Many people can have a lovely cocktail or two before a suitor arrives. This makes total sense. There is nothing wrong with “taking the edge off.”
Except, I was all edges. All the time. And I was anticipating the drink more than any other part of the night. With my track record, it might have been understandable. I’d become a Christian in my late twenties. This meant, I was sure, I would now find a hot, manly, completely normal Christian boy, and we would settle down and live the Christian dream of normalcy. Instead, during the eight years after I’d found Jesus, I found absolutely no one else. At times I had some pretty heated conversations with God about it. I felt a little shortchanged. As always, God listened, and then, in His absolute wisdom, set me up with the following guys:
1. Tom, who said he had Jesus but then also wanted to know if I would sleep with him after we got engaged. This was on the second date. And I met him at a bible study. A bible study.
2. Rick, who was so wimpy he asked me to step on a spider when we were on a picnic. I took the side of the spider.
3. Another Rick, who couldn’t go out with me unless we prayed and fasted for forty days first.
4. Owen. Owen was actually great, but he had absolutely no desire to be dating me.
5. John, who wanted to find our song on the first date and then pounded the dashboard in rage when I informed him that this sort of thing happens on its own. “My ex told me not to do this!” he shouted. I was not sure if he meant the song thing or the date in general. I walked home from that one.
6. Jimmy, who was from Alabama and had an adorable accent. Jimmy was also a preacher and did tell me that if we married I would be expected to play the piano at his church. He was a great guy. I have no clue, to this day, how to play the piano. Good for Jimmy we broke up.
7. Speaking of accents, one guy broke into a British accent occasionally while we were on our date at Barnes and Noble. I had to ask, “Um, you seem to be speaking in a British accent?” His reply, “Oh yes, I like to do that.” There was no further explanation. Also, there were no further dates.
My dating years, of which there were many, were full of men, but not a one was right. In fact, so many of them were so colossally wrong I wondered if I should start a business turning men into dateable material, and, for a small deposit and twenty monthly installments, enroll them. I’d call it “I’ve Got Issues!” I thought it would make a great profit.
Or, perhaps, it’s just a teensy bit possible many of these guys were totally fine. In hindsight, the “It’s not you, it’s me” line make a lot more sense—except the first guy on the list. He was an asshole.
When I finally met Brian, I felt like I could breathe. He had no clue we were going to get married and live happily ever after, but I knew. And so, for the many months that we dated, I was blissfully happy. I felt like God had parted the clouds, leaned down, and boomed, “IT’S OKAY. YOU CAN RELAX NOW.”
And so, I did. I relaxed so much that I survived the following activities:
• Planning a wedding within six months, and then, yes, actually getting married.
• Quitting my beloved teaching job where I had been working for over twelve years.
• Moving and then stuffing all my possessions, and his, into a tiny house that had one closet. One. Also, stuffing one large dog and one neurotic cat into this house.
• Dealing with a husband who worked long hours and traveled for weeks with his new job.
• Starting a new teaching gig at a school so large the principal never learned my name.
• Moving again after one year and starting yet another job.
I think there’s some psychological stress test somewhere that notes many of these events as significant. I am not sure pets in small places is included on the list, but it should be. Ask the pets.
I, however, seemed to be just fine. I had made my lists. I had it all planned. I prayed. I called my mom when I needed cooking advice. I was doing just dandy. My sister would call and ask, “How is it going? How’s married life?”
“Fine! Just fine! It’s awesome! This is great!” I used words like that all the time, and my inner English teacher cringed as I used my average word choice. But anything more specific was confusing to me. I was just fine.
At the same time, I would trudge through the front door of that tiny house, home from a rather horrible day teaching at a school where I never felt I fit in, drop my satchel, pat the very cooped up dog, and head straight for a glass of merlot. It had become the friend I could talk to at the end of the day, using more detailed adjectives. I deserved that wine, after all.
One afternoon after we moved in, I was unpacking and trying to shove too many shoes into that one closet, when I heard a strange slapping noise right outside our front porch. When I stepped out, I was greeted by roughly thirty naked fraternity boys, running up and through our yard (it was on a corner). When I say naked, I mean totally naked. Like, pale naked. Some were carrying beers. The beers hid some parts. Some boys said hello. Others just ran faster as I stared, slack-jawed. I hoped the slapping sound was the soles of their feet, but I’m not sure. This realization was so disturbing I texted Brian at work, “WHAT KIND OF PLACE IS THIS?” and he responded, “College town dear. Enjoy.”
Well, I did. We lived two blocks from the main drag in this little college town, where bars and restaurants spawned with cheerful and funky glee. Manhattan, Kansas, was hipster before hipster was cool. There was a sleek and sophisticated hotel with a mahogany bar and low, gleaming lights. There were dives, places to dance on tables, and pool halls. There were greasy spoons with endless hot wings and huge hurricane drinks that were sweet and deadly. And, there were margaritas everywhere. Their sticky sourness beckoned to me like a siren, and so we walked down to this happy place three, four times a week. It was never hard to convince the husband. He loved the food and the football, and I used the football as an excuse. I loved the margaritas. I loved the fun. I felt like I was on a permanent honeymoon.
We drank and watched the game. We picnicked and brought a bottle of wine. We enjoyed an afternoon at the bookstore and then hit Annie Mae’s for a quick cocktail. We met friends for pizza and beer. We got takeout Thai and paired it with a cold white wine. We drank and drank, and we got to know each other. Newlyweds in love.
At times things seemed a bit off. We fought at some bar surrounded by noise and too many co-eds. I walked home by myself, convinced I hated him. We fought on a Sunday morning on the way to church; I shrank from the possibility that Brian might not be the knight in shining armor I had imagined. I shut myself in my room, read a huge Cormac McCarthy book in one day, trying to isolate and punish Brian at the same time. I played so many head games I could have enlisted for the CIA.
We had to adjust to being married, and it was very hard. This is common, and it’s not the end of the world. But drinking just about made it the end of the world. I don’t think anyone has ever had a booze-fueled argument with a loved one that ended in great compassion and understanding. Put a glass in my hand, and I am always right. This made things a bit stressful. I wonder if this behavior should have been included on that psychological stress test that rates life events: drinking heavily to smooth over all the rough edges. If you check yes, add ten million points.
One late night I was watching a movie, waiting for Brian to get home from work. The television blared light and sound across a darkened
