I realize that we haven't yet enjoyed enough of the view from 30,000 feet to swoop down to rooftop level, but a string of events this evening illustrated “Much of What Vexes Our Marriage, In A Nutshell” so precisely and concisely, that it’s time for a quick post.
First, a bit of background: When things are, let’s say, colder than they are warmer between us (which is more the norm than the exception), I still try to give my wife quick, if perfunctory, kisses before I leave for work in the morning and when she goes to bed at night. I do this out of a fear, of sorts, that once we miss a few days of even those, their absence becomes increasingly conspicuous to both of us, and eventually we’re awaiting something momentous enough to justify the resumption of physical contact…something momentous that is unlikely to occur. I hope that makes sense.
So, we have a Halloween tradition of a few years now, in which the kids forego trick-or-treating in favor of bowling, miniature golfing, mini-karting and/or nickelcading with me, followed by a pumpkin pie frozen yogurt. They wear their little costumes anyway, and it’s a blast.
I got home from work, herded the kids out the door, and gave my wife one of “those” kisses, to which she responded, “Ah, the token peck.”
We went to local fun center for miniature golfing (tangent: at nearly every putt, I was acutely aware of how many times I’d played this same course as a kid with my friends; to some, this may be a bit heartwarming – to me, well, for many years, my definition of “failure” was the idea of living out life in the same zip code in which you were born), air hockey, Fußball and video games. My daughter, with pretty good rhythm for a white girl, was tearing it up on “Dance Dance Revolution.” I don’t know whether you’ve seen the most recent releases of the game, but the background graphics are somewhat evolved from earlier versions. In this case, every song featured a single, animated girl in “club-appropriate” attire, dancing to the music amid a frenzied CG background. Not overtly provocative – no bumping, grinding or pole-sliding…just how a girl might dance alone in her dorm room with her iPod on and the lights low. I’m there having a blast with my kids, my sweet daughter stomping away at this game, my son over Whacking-A-Mole, and I’m transfixed by this electronic Lolita.
The frozen yogurt place was closing right as we got there, so we took our treats to a nearby Barnes & Noble. As we walked through the magazine racks toward the café, I saw “25 Tips To Heat Up Your Bedroom” on the cover of something, and thought, “Meh…not even worth the discussion.”
Anybody remember the classic “Message from the Mormons” commercial of the kid bursting into the house, exulting in the two As on his report card, only to be struck by the Gorgon’s howl from upstairs, "How many times have I told you not to slam that door?!" As we headed from the garage to the front door, I became Frankenstein, so the kids were yelping and squealing as we entered the house. No sooner had I closed the door behind me, when I turned to see a furrowed brow delivering a stern rebuke (louder than any noises we were making), “I just put the baby to bed! Can’t you keep it down?!”
So as I stand there, staring into the steel, I think, "Am I supposed to want to plant anything more than the token peck on this face?"
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