I was always waiting for Brian. He worked very long hours and had a long commute, but I wanted him home. He had swooped into my life, and now it seemed he spent so much of it swooping away. I felt sorry for myself and took another long drink of some very cheap wine.
Just down the street from our house there was a liquor store that had bargain wine in dusty boxes under the shelves. I would hunt amongst the boxes, priding myself on “trying something new,” such as an obscure three-dollar bottle from some exotic location, like Burbank. I felt I’d hit the booze jackpot. It was like a Dollar General for drinkers. I was well stocked that night with my cheap wine, and as I sipped heavily on my budget merlot, I started to become a little angry.
Brian showed up much later. He was tethered to a job that was very new to him, and he was a perfectionist. This made for quite a few altercations between us about “late,” and “time,” and “love,” and “why can’t you . . .” kind of stuff. This night he was prepared. He brought me a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae with peanuts and whipped cream—my favorite thing ever. I took it, walked out to the porch, and hurled it across the yard. The ice cream landed in a graceful white arc, painting our lawn. My husband looked on in disbelief, and I sobbed and stomped off to the bedroom. My dramatic exit was slightly dampened by the fact that the bedroom was only three steps away, and I had to do a weird little hip shimmy to get past the coffee table and the dog.
I had been drinking since four in the afternoon.
Marriage was the big “yes” I had been looking for my entire life. I had been gritting my teeth and waiting for it to happen for so long, and it seemed that once the possibility of it was finally here, I felt weightless with joy. I was loved. I was chosen. This was all I ever needed.
Until, of course, I found out that it wasn’t.
TOP TEN WAYS TO SET YOURSELF UP FOR FAILURE IN THE LOVE DEPARTMENT
1. Assuming your cat is a good judge of character.
2. Dating someone who still has a Milli Vanilli tape way in the back of his stereo cabinet.
3. Dating someone who wants to high-five you after he makes out with you.
4. Dating someone, anyone, when you just really need to “work on yourself.”
5. Not understanding the concept of “working on yourself.” It’s not a cliché. It’s not something therapists say to make more money. It’s for real. It’s the interception play that ends the game. Until next season.
6. Figuring your partner will change. If this is how you operate, just get some cats and plants and get bitter now.
7. Regarding your significant other as you would oxygen. This puts a lot of pressure on the significant other, and on oxygen, to complete you.
8. Dating someone who quotes Jerry Maguire to you with no sense of irony. Especially the “Show me the money!” part.
9. Allowing yourself to love Jerry Maguire, just a little bit, even though it has that crazy guy in it, but insisting that there is no way you can have romance, love, and mushy stuff, too. You can. You’re worth it.
10. Not knowing what you’re worth. Always know your worth. If you don’t, someone else will assign it to you and will want you to change.
All My Problems Are Not Solved All My Problems Are Not Solved
“Are you going to leave him? I mean it. Should you?” This is my pastor, staring at me with piercing blue eyes, asking me if I should leave my husband. And all I can do is sit there, mute and tear-streaked. For once in my life, I have absolutely nothing to say.
The first year of marriage is frosted with happy, romantic memories. Long walks on the beach. A lot of deep talks by a roaring fire. Meaningful looks. Romantic passion. All of it. At least, this was what I imagined it would be, during those long thirty-six years that I waited for my Prince Valiant.
There were a few problems here. First of all, the nearest beach was at a brown lake strewn with beer cans. We didn’t have a fireplace. We did have a lot of candles, but the cat kept singeing his whiskers on all the ambiance. There were a lot of meaningful looks, at least from me, but I’m not sure Brian was really tracking any of those, so there was angry ambiance. And yes, sex did occur, as expected. We aimed for passion, but really, bedroom antics were not so much the cinematic kind. They were more like the “I’m trying to figure all this out, but I’m a little lost here. I know tab A fits into slot B and all, but I wish I had some clearer instructions” kind.
Here’s what really happens when two people get married: all hell breaks loose.
I mean it. In faith, we stepped up to the plate together, fully committed to God’s blessing and forming a covenant, like, in the eyes of God and the government, and my dad, and all that. This is big stuff. And so, from there on, it’s pretty much a crapshoot. The scientists will tell you it’s entropy. Theologians will say Satan. If I had asked my dad back then, he would have said “booze,” which really is just a combination of both ideas.
When we first moved into our little love nest with the one closet, I felt so fluffed up with joy and marital bliss I might have taken flight. These feelings lasted as long as it took for me to understand what unpacking meant. The tiny bungalow we had rented was the size of one of those lovely showrooms at IKEA. Cute with a lot of great Scandinavian trinkets—no space. And in it, I needed to fit a stadium-sized share of boxes, packed full of pictures, candles, dog beds, and dishes—all from home. As I unwrapped each piece it would exhale homesickness into the air, like decor spores. Also, there was just too much of it. I had three coffee makers, no drawers, six closet organizers, and one closet. For weeks I unpacked, cried, and found myself going mad among piles of boxes as high as my head, weaving around them like a frustrated mouse stuck in a frustrating maze of nostalgia.
What I had not bargained for, among all these feelings and such, was that my sweet husband’s behavior did not match up with what I’d had all planned out for him. I imagined Brian would be a hybrid of Dr. Phil, Ryan Gosling, and Jesus.
Here is how it played out in my mind: I’d be upset, perhaps a little sad and missing my home, when my sweet hubby would arrive home with flowers and wine (of course) to talk, soothe, and listen. Instead? My sweet hubby would not get home often until late, sometimes with flowers, sometimes not, and for some reason he was totally unable to read my mind.
I started teaching at the local high school about four weeks after we were married. Teaching had always been my passion and my joy, but my year at this school beat the joy right out of me. Classes were overcrowded. The faculty was in turmoil—gossip and grumbling was the norm in the faculty room. The building had mold problems, and I got dreadfully sick. All of this nearly broke my little Type A heart. Teaching was my thing. I was good at it and had plaques to prove it: Teacher of Excellence! Risk Taker Award!
