I find that it has been nearly a year since I was able to dedicate myself to this blog. Rather than trying to update, I feel that I should merely start over. As of Sunday, August 14th, here’s to Chapter 2 in the life of a married couple trying to make it all work. 
Latest
Absence
Sorry for the huge gap between postings. School has resumed with a vengeance, but I promise to resume very soon! Hang in there folks–The Holidays are here
Halo Reach: oh how I loathe thee
There’s a joke on the streets about being a video game widow. “Oh, I’m a WoW widow,” or “I lost my husband to Modern Warfar 2 on December 2, 2009.” While a little ridiculous, it’s the wives’ way of saying “our husbands play video games to an excessive degree.” Certain games leave me dreading release dates almost as much as I dread exam results; personally, anything having to do with Halo and its parasitic companions leaves me in physical agony. My husband was an avid Halo sycophant long before we became an item–his senior thesis in college built itself from the mythology contained within the game itself–so I knew there would be a constant war between myself and Sargent Johnson for years to come. First, there was Halo 2 (shortly after we started dating the first time in college), then came Halo 3 at the beginning of our Senior year in college. “Finally!” I thought, “It must be over. All good things come in threes.” Oh, how wrong I was.
Joking with the other girls around campus about being Halo widows was funny for a while, then it became a discussion of complete frustration. Our guys were planning full days of gaming and junk food, dubbed ‘game days.’ Seriously, from waking until utter exhaustion, junk food and video games with no breaks! How are we supposed to compete with that?
After graduation, I became a WoW widow (World of Warcraft.) I was left to entertain myself for hours on end after work was through, and asking him away from the game was like tearing away oxygen. “But…but…my guild has a raid tonight…I can’t go to the movies. Why don’t you watch one of your girly favorites? I’ll set up the TV in here so you can watch the movie and I’ll put my headphones on so I’m not disturbing you.” After 5 months of this type of behavior, I decided I’d either have to join him or leave him. No longer was I WoW widow, I was an active participant in this gaming realm where men and women alike proudly exclaimed, “Real life is lame.” Hours of our lives that we will never get back, and for what? Leveling, gearing, instancing, and reputation grinds that, in all honesty, mean absolutely nothing. True, I could relate to my husband and partake of conversations with him and some of his buddies again, as well as relating to my students on a gaming level, but at what cost? I felt almost dirty.
In 2009, we finally nipped that habit in the butt and put aside our WoW-ing ways, only to find out, (oh boy) Halo is putting out new games! ODST will be out September 22, 2009 (a little over a month from our wedding.) To spare you the details, ODST was purchased upon our return from our Honeymoon and I was to be, once again, a Halo widow. However, this game didn’t seem to hold as much enthusiasm as the others, and before long, this game was put aside and forgotten. “Could Halo have lost its appeal,” I pondered. After Lego adventures, trips into the Inferno, and many other haphazard game purchases, a news release doomed me in June 2009: Bungie will release a prequel to the Halo series–Halo Reach. My life hasn’t been the same since.
Upon its release on September 14, 2010, I have remembered what it feels like to be a video game widow; my Facebook updates tell me that many of my dating and/or married women friends are finding themselves in the same situation. Halo Reach has consumed the souls of our men and has taken up residence in the family television for the foreseeable future. Every night since Tuesday, our men have glued themselves 5 feet from the television and fallen hostage to a world that is destined for destruction (If you don’t know the story, Reach is the first place destroyed by the mythical Covenant race) They already know the planet will be destroyed! What’s the point in playing this game…?
I suppose it’s not fair for me to ask that; I’m not completely absorbed in this story, but I guess it’s comparable to some of the stories in books I become entranced with. Either way, I had not had a real conversation with my husband after 5:00 a single night since Tuesday. We even had a friend stop by on Wednesday to hang out; similar to his WoW days, the main television was set up so I could watch my show, and the smaller TV was beside it where he played with his headphones. Our friend sat on the couch with me and watched my show, while hubby was completely oblivious to everything happening outside of that 16 inch screen. Come Friday night, I was livid. Hubby and his friend had planned a Saturday ‘game day.’ (yes, the hated idea has returned to torture me yet again). The original agreement was not to play until Saturday, get it out of their system and “beat the campaign” on Saturday, and then moderate play-time thereafter. However, the reality was playing every night until 10:00-11:00, and then planning a game day to continue playing ALL DAY. Well, I’d had it, and I wasn’t playing fair anymore. I pulled out my little bag of dirty tricks and played under the table.
“I want to go to Disney on Saturday.” I want to spend time away from the television and have some time together. I got what I wanted, a little easier than I expected, but it was bittersweet. We spent the day together and had fun, but I think in turn, I may have cost him more than he was originally willing to pay by upsetting his gaming buddy. Don’t worry–I’ve put the bag away and I’m playing nice for a while; he’s playing as I write, which paints the picture that all is right in the world of matrimony for the time being. However, nights like this make me wonder how many nasty letters Bungie receives from wives and girlfriends over ruined relationships and money spent on the same damn game time and time again. Raise your glasses girls: here’s to being a gaming widow. :-/
Becoming one with nature…sort of
We were at training from September 8-10th. Normally, when teachers are sent to training, they go to a public location that can accommodate the vast number of teachers and the technology necessary to train them; this usually ends up being a church with a large fellowship hall, a campus auditorium, or a place we call Jim Miles–a professional development center. (Yeah…I don’t know) You can imagine my surprise when we were told to attend this three day training at Circle B Bar Reserve. The realization went something like this: “Seriously? The nature reserve? Really…? Cool!”
I can’t even begin to describe how awesome this place really is! There are 1260+ acres of environmental lands to explore on this property, not to mention all the advanced classrooms, the presentations, and the nature! The only problem I found with this training, quickly, is that while it’s nice to see out windows and see the beautiful scenery, it’s hard to sit still and absorb new information when adventure and exploration are staring at you through pristine windows, beckoning “Come out and play!” (Wow…that was a little creepy…think inviting in a non-creepy way) When you’re a teacher, you become a gold medal Olympic eater (less than 20 minutes) so when you’re given 90 minutes for lunch, you really have no idea what to do with yourself. We ate lunch sitting on the bleachers of an outdoor stage and spent some time playing detective: owl droppings throughout the enclosure provided some interesting discoveries. On our second morning at the Reserve, we saw a family of wild boars, a flock of turkeys, and a golden eagle. We quickly decided it was worth coming back on Sunday and exploring when the weather wasn’t 100+ degrees. We even learned a new word while in our classroom (which was decked-out from floor to ceiling with all things “nature”): scat=animal droppings. We had our nephew in mind when we learned this word .
Sunday morning 7:30am: up and ready to go. We’re at the Reserve by 8:00 and it’s already sweltering hot. After something less than a discussion, we’re heading towards Alligator Alley (ooooh!) and before we get 100 steps from the parking lot, Mike’s stepped on a snake. With a black back, orange belly, and white stripe around its head, we have no idea what it is, but it slithers away angrily–must be OK–and we continue on our way. Take a right at the giant spider and a left at the flock of turkeys and we’re already at Lake Hancock. Surprisingly, there are several people enjoying the beautiful Florida nature this morning. Several herons and spiders later, we finally see what we’ve been looking for: an alligator. Lurking in the swampiness of the goopy water, he stares back at us disapprovingly as the camera captures his glare for eternity. Despite the original hesitant atmosphere of this polluted waterworks, we will definitely return to this place in the future. As the cleanup project begins, we thank God for little favors: “The property was jointly purchased in 2000 be the Southwest Florida Water Management District and Polk County’s Environmental Lands Program. This parcel will play a key role in the preservation efforts of the Upper Peace River restoration” from http://www.polk-county.net/subpage.aspx?menu_id=52&nav=res&id=6040.
Obviously, we walked away from our training educated on new methods of improving education, but we also left with a sense of necessity for this program; the water is green with pollution, the animals have had to adapt to continue living here, and there are so many ways we can contribute to the restoration of this watershed. I’m glad we received such a differentiated education this last week; sometimes, a reality check is all we need to get ourselves in the correct mindset–whether it was intentional or not, I’m grateful we were at Circle B.
The Final Showdown
Sadly, the final showdown of the Cockroach King vs. Jen is truly not as amazing as the hype built it up to be; however, I felt it necessary to inform you all of Cockroach King’s dethroning.
Today, we bid farewell to the Cockroach King as he departs to the great scuttling ground in the sky. He was a large cockroach, the master of his cockroach domain, a terrifying and ferocious beast–he will not be missed by the household, but his kingdom mourns the passing of an inspiring leader. As the human invaders reclaimed their control of the house with much jubilation and celebration, the cockroach kingdom silently wept from the crevasses and cracks in the floorboards and walls: who would stake claim over this domicile on their behalf with the King squashed in toilet paper now?
The battle was quick, the death, ruthless and without mercy. From his vantage point, the King mistakenly believed the female of the humans was alone and he took the field with false bravado hiding behind her makeup case; as she finished applying her mascara, she moved to return the tube to its rightful spot in the case but, lo! The King had planned to exact his revenge by landing upon this weak creature and devouring her; as she made her desperate cries for the male, the King believed the battle over–hubby failed to rescue her last time, he would sure enough fail today as well. As the King positioned himself for his epic maneuver, he was quickly overtaken by a sandal, sized 11.5. The King was indeed right by one aspect: the battle was indeed over, but his cockiness cost him his life–hubby came down upon the King with the speed of 1,000 mustangs and ended his existence with a sickening squish.
While his body received an unceremonious toss into the wastebasket among a wad of toilet paper, his subjects paid their respects in their own way. In a show of grandeur and respect, several roaches sacrificed themselves to the wrath of the orange fuzz-ball guarding the household nightly so that others may escape to greener pastures, in the hope of finding another King as dutiful, diligent, brave, and ferocious against the humans as the great leader they recently lost. Go in peace creatures, but go you should; with the King dead, all mercy towards your kind is also dead.
And thus, with a grand bow, the Simpson’s close the chapter of their lives upon the epic battle against the Cockroach King: with the battle finally at an end, they move forward in search of the next great adventure life in Simpsonia has to offer them.
When the wife is out of commission…
It’s bound to happen: middle school students are walking petri dishes and they carry all sorts of grossness with them; from sneezing to high fives, passing in papers to wiping their nose, the rate of germ transfer in a classroom is fast enough to make the autobahn hang its head in shame. Not that everyone else doesn’t play pass the buck as well, but put 150 middle schoolers up against 1 teacher, and the ratio is in favor of the teacher catching something. Guilty as charged, I am down for the count starting Friday night.
Stubborn as I am, I refused to be put-off my first weekend–I WILL endure and enjoy all these plans I have for the weekend. Well…almost. Friday night we met up with some friends at Harry’s Bar and Grille for some scrumptious eats, and then headed to Wally’s Pool Hall for an embarrassingly good time making fools of ourselves. (we’re probably 4 of the saddest pool players in town, but we had fun despite the scratches and ball-jumps!) As soon as I got home, I set my alarm for 9:00 am and crashed into bed–I had a very important day planned on Saturday that included Bed Bath and Beyond and a trip to IKEA (my first ever). The alarm sounds at 9:00, I fall to the floor and crawl to the alarm. Slowly, I pull myself up and hobble (literally) to the kitchen for juice and daytime medicine. 9:15, I’m still standing in the kitchen trying to make the room stop spinning. 9:20, I’m checking the weather, updating Facebook, and reading the news. 9:30, I’m laying in bed waiting for the headache to go away. Finally, I admit semi-defeat and text Kit-Kat asking if we can postpone BB&Beyond and try IKEA around noon if my condition has improved. All the while, Mike is nervously following me around wondering if I’m going to keel over or throw-up. “Why don’t you take a bath?” he asks. Good idea. Thirty minute soak and I’m sweating like crazy. “This is gross, I’m getting out.” He finds me some loose-fitting clothes and tells me to take a nap; he’ll wake me up in time to get ready to go. “I’m not tired….” Next thing I know, it’s several hours later. How in the world did I fall asleep after taking daytime medicine….? Said medicine has made a strange fog settle over my brain for the rest of my day; it goes something like this:
Mike keeps dangling the words “chicken soup” in my face…several inches away, of course…and at last, I can’t resist. I try to tell him I don’t know where the recipe is, and he sheepishly looks at me: “I was going to go to Crisper’s; their soup will be much better than anything I can make.” Ok, you may have a point. Asleep again. Door slams. Soups on! Nom nom nom. Woah…it’s 2:00…. I can hear the sounds of Modern Warfare dancing around with all my other dreams; Mike must be playing video games to pass the time. “Let’s watch Firefly” “Okay…what’s it about?” “You’ll see; here, move the pillow so you can sit up a bit. Drink your Sierra Mist.” 10 episodes later, it’s time for dinner. I need to use the restroom, but it takes me a total of 10 minutes to get there, go, and get back to the couch. I can’t feel my feet on the floor. Asleep again: banging and water running, Murphy’s collar jingling, cat walking on me, I’m sweating again. Scrambled eggs and ham. “Mike, did you text Kit-Kat for me? What time is it? Wow…it’s dark out.” More Firefly. “Are you tired?” “I don’t think so, but maybe?” I’m turning off lights, giving Murphy her dinner, and crawling into bed. It’s 7:10am and my alarm is ringing. It’s 9:45am and I’m hungry. Life is somewhat normal again.
My nurse never left my side, but the whole thing seems pretty surreal. He made sure I had a blanket, that I got the rest my body felt it needed, and that hydration was readily available. He also made sure everyone who was counting on me was up to speed with my ‘out-of-commissionism.” I feel bad leaving him to fend for himself all day, but everything is still intact, everyone is still alive, and I don’t think anyone is upset with us. I felt better today, but I still can’t breathe correctly and my appetite is dodgy. While my stomach tells me it could use food, my taste buds reject everything that even thinks of approaching them. Fall back into the routine: laundry at Dad’s on Sunday, grading in the afternoon, let Murphy run, watch it rain, come home for dinner, put the clothes away while Mike does the dishes. I have done my seating chart, checked my work email, and updated my blog. At 10:00 on a Sunday night, I’m heading to bed. While I’m functioning, it’s like only 4 of 6 pistons are firing–everything moves a little slower, my thoughts are a little fuzzy, and my emotions are running high. In short: colds suck, but a good husband can make even the weirdest “down day” an adventure.
Birthday, block, and buying
My husband went all-out for my birthday this year. It started on Monday night with a gift for the second day of school: a coffee thermos with a spill-resistant lid (my hubby knows me so well!). Green and shiny and cleaned for day 2 of school, I went to bed with the knowledge that Mike would be making me dinner from scratch the next night and the realization that I have my first ever day of block scheduling on my birthday.
Block scheduling is insane–especially when two of the classes you have during block are single-gender classes. Not to sound gender-biased or sexist/elitist/rude/etc, but a class of 22 girls is much easier to reign in than a class of 22 boys. On my birthday, I had my group of guys. They’re sweet and adorable (6th grade) but they’re rowdy. Throughout the day, I had groups of students clumping around outside my door or at their desks singing off-tune “Happy Birthday” to the volume that walls might shake. It was horrifically wonderful, and I was so flattered that they actually remembered from last year. Having groups for an hour and a half at a time allows you to really gauge your students, analyze who works well together and who is just there to goof around, and encourages them to leave at just about the second you can’t handle anymore. Block is great for getting 1-on-1 time, but it’s also a l-o-n-g time to work with the same 22 kids at a time… Actually quite funny: one of the teachers on the team told the 6th grade girls I was either 40 or 41, and one of the girls ran up to me to say “I have GOT to know what moisturizing cream you use, ‘cuz you look goooooooooood to be in your 40′s.” Thanks for that, I think? A couple of hand-made cards and gifts and some super sore feet later, we’re on our way to meet a guy at the bank. Why? Because we have a crazy idea that we want to buy a house….
Good news? We’re approved for $40,000 more than we were expecting. Bad news? not really any bad news. Unexpected news? We need to save about $4,000 before we can even think of purchasing. Holy crap. Between the two of us, there’s maybe 1/3 of that saved, and at our rate of living/spending, we’ll be looking to buy NEXT fall. So, we’re budgeting…again. We’ve given ourselves what we’re calling “mad-money.” $200.00 in cash for each of us to spend on the things we like to do: go out to eat, to the movies, Picassoz’s Cup, bowling, etc. No more. Once we’ve blown through that, there’s no “Oh, I can put it on my card.” At first I thought $400 blow off money a month was too much, but as we calculated, it’s actually right about par with our average. As we get comfortable with this, we’ll tighten the belt again, until we work our way down to smaller numbers of spending and larger numbers of savings. I’m nervous, but determined, and Mike’s on board 100% with this. It’s comforting to have a common goal to look forward to; I think it will help with impulse-spending if one drops the phrase, “but, what about the house?”
Bank out of the way, it’s time for yumminess! After I admire my new sharpened-pencil bouquet (yes, similar to “You’ve Got Mail” only mine’s better ), I am then presented with yet another awesome gift: a bath pillow! Our bath-tub is designed for giants, well, at least really tall skinny ones. At 5’3”, I can’t sit with my back against the slop of the tub and reach my feet to the faucet. So, I’m either propping myself against the back by pushing my knees into the sides, or I’m literally lying down in the tub. So uncomfortable and inconvenient. Hubby has a solution: a huge, fluffy, air-filled pillow that sticks to the back. It’s perfect. So, along with a new candle and a good book, I immersed myself into bubble bath bliss, and listened to the comforting (!) sounds of a deranged baboon destroying my kitchen–at least, that’s what it sounded like. The bathroom is located on the opposite wall from the pan cabinet, the stove, and the fridge; I was the recipient of many water-amplified booms, bangs, kabangs, and ting-tang-ting-bangs while enjoying my soak. In the end, totally worth it! Mike made the most amazing home-made pork fried rice I have ever had…well, it was the only home-made pork fried rice I’ve ever had…but it was definitely the best! I ate every bite and took some with me to work on Wednesday! To top off all his hard work and devotion, he made me a birthday cake as well! Oh, that funny, stubborn, wonderful hubby ‘o mine
Here’s to the 25th year: may it be a year of growth, change, and happiness! <3
Do we live?
We do! Things are going well this week. Tuffles here and there, but with the start of school, that’s to be expected. Murphy is taking a while to get back into the habit of being in her kennel from 7:00-5:00, but we all make due. Today was the first day we had students–he’s beat–but we’re both optimistic that this will be a good year. Tomorrow’s my birthday and Mike’s planned a pretty decent dinner (pork fried rice from scratch!) plus, we’ve arranged to meet with a mortgage broker to discuss a possible application for home buying! We’ll see how that goes…I’ll update soon
Birthday regrets
When we are young, birthdays are a time of celebration. We used to celebrate birthdays with such festivities because, in those early centuries, it was worthy of celebration that you had survived another year! As time progressed and the life-expectancy increased, birthdays changed; here’s my attempt to sum up super-awesomeness-celebratory-expensive-shindigs in a paragraph.
The first birthday is obviously a big deal–I mean, finally, no more counting your existence in mere months: you’ve been here a whole year! Hurray! Birthdays 2-7 are a big deal because, hey, you’re a kid…free loot from those around you and from people you’ve met maybe twice in your life. What could be better? Celebrations teeter off for a couple years, then you’re thirteen–officially a teenager! Celebrate the ringing-in of unpredictable mood swings, puberty, and the fact that all of a sudden, you know everything in the world there is to know. (I do, after all, teach middle school…) Sweet 16! I believe they call it “sweet” because all of a sudden, after a 3-year internal nuclear war, you are prepared to attempt facing civilization with some semblance of a positive demeanor. Skip a year and you’re 18 (Yes! Finally legal! … or something like that); you can drive alone, smoke cigarettes, play the lottery: for all intensive purposes, you’re an adult in the eye of Uncle Sam and, traditionally, you’re about to start college or a career. Then comes the big one: 21! Finally, you can drink (legally) and you are allowed into “adult” locations after 10:00pm. This birthday holds the title for “most extreme parties” and I’m going to let you use your imagination to fill in the blanks. (remember your 21st? Maybe not.) All of a sudden, the birthday celebrations come to an abrupt halt. Either we hate the idea of getting any older, or we just don’t see the point in going all-out anymore.
My husband turned 25 on Thursday. I didn’t think anything of it. He’d been toting the mantra of “My car insurance goes down on the 12th” for weeks; I chimed in that he can officially rent a car or a moving truck now. Through all the joking, I wondered, “Does he want something special on his birthday?” Each time I asked, he would answer, “nah, don’t make a fuss.” Normally, I would invite a whole bunch of friends over or out for dinner, maybe go bowling or to a specialty bar/restaurant, and encourage some crazy shenanigans. But, I believed him, so I didn’t go all out. I cooked his favorite meal, made his favorite dessert, and bought him 7 harmonicas and a case. My Dad bought him the grill he’s been wanting for years, he received a good book and a cool-looking pipe. Other than that, it was pretty ordinary–we even had a training to attend that morning. I thought it was a nice relaxing day with no big fuss…just like he wanted? I read the signs wrong.
That night, we watched a movie (The Wolfman–yuck) of his choice with dinner and I served dessert to Kit-Kat and Baby Ruth when they came to drop off the pipe and wish him a Happy Birthday. When the movie was finished, I asked if he wanted to watch another movie; he said “not really” and made a move toward the XBox controller. I figured, “it’s your birthday, have fun” and thought he wanted to play some video games. While he played, I thought I’d get work done. Around 11:30, I could feel the tension swarming between the rooms; I tried to ignore it, thinking maybe I was imagining it like usual, and continued my work. Then I heard, “What are you doing in there?” “Working on my bulletin board for the hallway.” *Sigh* “Uh-oh,” I thought, “something’s off.”
Long story short, it wasn’t a great birthday. As I think about it, I realize I get the same way on birthdays: I think too much. I’m getting older. I’m content sitting in the house eating and not going out. Not only is my body getting older, I am old… At 25, should we really be content being in the house at 6:30 and not leaving again? Should we be happy watching movies on our flat-screen surrounded by animals and dinner remnants? According to Hollywood, no, we shouldn’t be. We are too young to be content; we are of an age to go out and DO! Mike felt that, and he didn’t know how to tell me. While he may not have wanted a huge drunken party replay of birthday 21, he probably wanted something different than every other night. I failed to see that. I was so consumed with the idea of comfort and content, that I failed to recognize ‘special.’ I did not forget that the birthday was a special day, but the way I delivered was not special at all. I didn’t even wrap his present. No, worse, I didn’t even buy it ahead of time. I took him on Thursday to Guitar Center to pick out his own harmonicas. While the thought was there, I was so obsessed with the idea that I might get the wrong one, that I didn’t even realize I had sucked all the surprise and specialness out of the gift. Hindsight is 20/20, and I’m seeing so clearly now that it hurts. Why didn’t I set up a nice table on the porch and we could have eaten outside? We could have gotten dressed up. I didn’t even put candles in the striped delight. Why did I insist we fix the tire on Thursday…it could have waited until Friday. Why didn’t I insist on going on a walk around town after dark? I could have had the house all spiffy and nice; I should have had a whole playlist of movies to watch until the sun came up. I could have done something romantic. I could have smiled more and worried less. There are so many ways I could have made this birthday comfortable, yet unique and memorable. But I didn’t. And I hate myself for it.
Scare tactics are foolish
I come from a family of straight-shooters; lay the news on the table in the most honest fashion possible, and everyone takes what they can away from it. This mentality has never made me one to keep news secret “for the interest of happiness” or to stretch the truth. Can I tell a white lie? If I must, but they tear me apart and I’d really rather not. If there’s a surprise coming up and I know about it in advance, chances are I’ll stop talking to you altogether to avoid having to tell lies and/or accidentally letting the secret out. My Dad never beat around the bush with me, and he never tried to scare me into doing things his way–lay out the worst possible scenario, yes; purposefully scare me, no. I have never been one to use the scare tactic; I much prefer the facts because I feel that the facts speak for themselves. So… based on these truths, you can imagine the internal chaos that ensued when this popped into my inbox with the subject line: For the married, thinking about marriage, and the divorced--a must read. (I know…I should have seen the signs too.)
“MARRIAGE
When I got home that night as my wife served dinner, I held her hand and said, I’ve got something to tell you. She sat down and ate quietly. Again I observed the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly I didn’t know how to open my mouth. But I had to let her know what I was thinking. I want a divorce. I raised the topic calmly. She didn’t seem to be annoyed by my words, instead she asked me softly, why? I avoided her question. This made her angry. She threw away the chopsticks and shouted at me, you are not a man! That night, we didn’t talk to each other. She was weeping. I knew she wanted to find out what had happened to our marriage. But I could hardly give her a satisfactory answer; she had lost my heart to Jane. I didn’t love her anymore. I just pitied her!
With a deep sense of guilt, I drafted a divorce agreement which stated that she could own our house, our car, and 30% stake of my company. She glanced at it and then tore it into pieces. The woman who had spent ten years of her life with me had become a stranger. I felt sorry for her wasted time, resources and energy but I could not take back what I had said for I loved Jane so dearly. Finally she cried loudly in front of me, which was what I had expected to see. To me her cry was actually a kind of release. The idea of divorce which had obsessed me for several weeks seemed to be firmer and clearer now.
The next day, I came back home very late and found her writing something at the table. I didn’t have supper but went straight to sleep and fell asleep very fast because I was tired after an eventful day with Jane. When I woke up, she was still there at the table writing. I just did not care so I turned over and was asleep again. In the morning she presented her divorce conditions: she didn’t want anything from me, but needed a month’s notice before the divorce. She requested that in that one month we both struggle to live as normal a life as possible. Her reasons were simple: our son had his exams in a month’s time and she didn’t want to disrupt him with our broken marriage. This was agreeable to me. But she had something more, she asked me to recall how I had carried her into out bridal room on our wedding day. She requested that every day for the month’s duration I carry her out of our bedroom to the front door ever morning. I thought she was going crazy. Just to make our last days together bearable I accepted her odd request.
I told Jane about my wife’s divorce conditions. She laughed loudly and thought it was absurd. No matter what tricks she applies, she has to face the divorce, she said scornfully. My wife and I hadn’t had any body contact since my divorce intention was explicitly expressed. So when I carried her out on the first day, we both appeared clumsy. Our son clapped behind us, daddy is holding mommy in his arms. His words brought me a sense of pain. From the bedroom to the sitting room, then to the door, I walked over ten meters with her in my arms. She closed her eyes and said softly; don’t tell our son about the divorce. I nodded, feeling somewhat upset. I put her down outside the door. She went to wait for the bus to work. I drove alone to the office.
On the second day, both of us acted much more easily. She leaned on my chest. I could smell the fragrance of her blouse. I realized that I hadn’t looked at this woman carefully for a long time. I realized she was not young any more. There were fine wrinkles on her face, her hair was graying! Our marriage had taken its toll on her. For a minute I wondered what I had done to her. On the fourth day, when I lifted her up, I felt a sense of intimacy returning. This was the woman who had given ten years of her life to me. On the fifth and sixth day, I realized that our sense of intimacy was growing again. I didn’t tell Jane about this. It became easier to carry her as the month slipped by. Perhaps the everyday workout made me stronger.
She was choosing what to wear one morning. She tried on quite a few dresses but could not find a suitable one. Then she sighed, all my dresses have grown bigger. I suddenly realized that she had grown so thin, that was the reason why I could carry her more easily. Suddenly it hit me… she had buried so much pain and bitterness in her heart. Subconsciously I reached out and touched her head. Our son came in at the moment and said, Dad, it’s time to carry mom out. To him, seeing his father carrying his mother out had become an essential part of his life. My wife gestured to our son to come closer and hugged him tightly. I turned my face away because I was afraid I might change my mind at this last minute. I then held her in my arms, walking from the bedroom, through the sitting room, to the hallway. Her hand surrounded my neck softly and naturally. I held her body tightly; it was just like our wedding day.
But her much lighter weight made me sad. On the last day, when I held her in my arms I could hardly move a step. Our son had gone to school. I held her tightly and said, I hadn’t noticed that our life lacked intimacy. I drove to office…. jumped out of the car swiftly without locking the door. I was afraid any delay would make me change my mind…I walked upstairs. Jane opened the door and I said to her, Sorry, Jane, I do not want the divorce anymore. She looked at me, astonished, and then touched my forehead. Do you have a fever? She said. I moved her hand off my head. Sorry, Jane, I said, I won’t divorce. My marriage life was boring probably because she and I didn’t value the details of our lives, not because we didn’t love each other anymore. Now I realize that since I carried her into my home on our wedding day I am supposed to hold her until death do us apart. Jane seemed to suddenly wake up. She gave me a loud slap and then slammed the door and burst into tears. I walked downstairs and drove away.
At the floral shop on the way, I ordered a bouquet of flowers for my wife. The salesgirl asked me what to write on the card. I smiled and wrote, I’ll carry you out every morning until death do us apart. That evening I arrived home, flowers in my hands, a smile on my face, I run up stairs, only to find my wife in the bed – dead. My wife had been fighting cancer for months and I was so busy with Jane to even notice. She knew that she would die soon and she wanted to save me from the whatever negative reaction from our son, in case we push through with the divorce.– At least, in the eyes of our son— I’m a loving husband….”
Now, please don’t think I’m a heartless wench or that I didn’t feel anything for this man–of course I do–however… I don’t agree with the delivery of the message. The man telling this story totes the fact that others can learn from his mistake and stop taking for granted the ones they love; true, it is a horrible plight when lovers stop recognizing the intimacy in a marriage and the details that make it work, but you can’t scare intimacy back into those who have strayed! While I appreciate this man’s dedication to the memory of his wife and revelation that she was truly the one he loved, and I understand how I am supposed to react, my major reaction is not the intended reaction; my reaction is fear for the life of my husband!
I am slightly neurotic (I believe most of us have our neurotic moments) and pointing out the possibility of the death of my spouse does not make me want to throw myself into his arms in a heated fury of passion, but rather throw myself at him with medical scrutiny. “Didn’t you say you had the sniffles the other day?” “How’s the pain in your back?” “What do you mean you feel a bump in your throat?!” I become the paranoid wife, and things get a little tense for a couple of days. Mike has a tendency to stare at me; sometimes he’s zoned out, other times, I think, he’s just appreciating something about me. However, when my hackles are raised and my paranoia meter is running rampant, the staring starts to freak me out. I have friends that tend to stare when they have something to tell you that they don’t know how to word properly (usually really good or really bad news) and I’ve come to see staring and long bouts of silence as a bad sign. Remember my family tendencies: we come right out with it and deal with it as soon as the issue arises–people who hum and haw tend to freak me out and get me all worked up. The staring has become an issue lately. Also, there’s the thought in the back of my mind that keeps knocking on my front door. “Hey, come on, think about me already. I’m not going away until you at least entertain me for a moment or two.” I’m really not prepared for the emotions of an internal thought-process of a life without Mike; as a result of my incapability to play hostess to this possibility, ever, the incessant knocking is getting a little nerve-wracking.
Where I coming from, it seems so much easier to lay out the facts than to play the Scare Doctor. All I’m saying is be honest, be relevant, be fair, and other will come away with the message they need.
