A few miles up the canyon, I realized that I’d worn the charcoal gray shirt that had belonged to somebody who was close to me, and that his parents had given to me after his passing. I thought of James Joyce and smiled at the ironic appropriateness of wearing a funereal color, and this shirt in particular, to an event commemorating something that was dead, or at least dying.
My wife shared her sadness at giving up on many of her life's dreams--as she clarified, this came to mean specifically her hope to have had many children--and finding piecemeal joy in the day-to-days of being with the boys. She said that her only good, "major memory" of the past year was a road trip that she, the boys and I took last fall, while our daughter was with my wife's parents in the Midwest.
We’d sat for a short time in the waiting room near the host’s station, when four twenty-somethings sat down at the table next to us: Two tall, blonde German girls with a couple of goofy-looking guys (one German, one American), all with the rosy-cheeks/reverse-raccoon-eyes look suggesting that they’d been skiing without much sunscreen. The girls’ faces were unremarkable but attractive enough. One of them wore no bra, her small, perky breasts bouncing under her sleeveless blouse, her nipples pressing against the ivory silk as she shifted around with conversation and laughter.
It’s a nice-ish restaurant that we’ve eaten at several times. Small enough to look around the room and remember some of the tables where we'd sat on various occasions: A dinner discussing the “next big thing” with potential business partners, the night I told her I’d gotten a big raise, double dates with good friends, etc.
We sat coldly next to the fireplace and ate in silence, generally avoiding eye contact, the consummate ‘Honey, did you see that couple over by the fire at the restaurant tonight? You could just tell that they were waaaay over each other. I hope we’re never like that!’ couple.
We did manage to fill about 40 seconds when I asked her for a little more feedback on a purchase she’d made while I was out of town on business -- a purchase that broke our $100 agreement, which is (as you may be aware) a commitment to at least discuss in detail if not agree to any out-of-the-norm purchases that exceed $100. (After a decade of financial feuding and lots of big-ticket surprises, we instituted the agreement recently as the result of negotiating a very expensive, non-essential purchase for her. Ironically—on so many levels—the negotiated purchase was of a bicycle, one that she was convinced was literally The Only True And Living Bike on the face of the planet that she can ride, it ran about 3x the price of substantially-similar bicycles, and she’s ridden it perhaps three or four times since we bought it seven months ago.) She said, “I know it creates a trust problem, but when I’m feeling like I am right now about you, about our marriage, I guess I really don’t care about your trust or our commitments.” A sentiment I can certainly appreciate.
15 or 20 minutes later I asked, “Is there anything at all that you want to talk about?” “No. Anything you want to talk about?” I never responded.
What I had wanted to talk about, as I’d thought throughout the day about the upcoming evening out, was to go through or even write out a list of key marital compatibility points:
- Intellectual
- Spiritual
- Physical/sexual
- Interests/hobbies
- Emotional/communication
- Financial
- Goals
- Etc.
…and discuss them. (I’d even thought about writing them on two separate sheets of paper, having each of us place a 1-10 “How We’re Doing” score next to them, and then swapping sheets, but I didn’t think that anything really constructive would come from her seeing my sheet full of sub-5 scores.) My point was going to be to acknowledge that for her, as it is for many (or so it’s claimed), everything starts at the Spiritual and builds from there. But for me, based on my experience in this marriage and my understanding of myself, be it wiring or nurture or what-not, unless the Physical is fiery, the others will not progress. And if none of this progresses--and soon--we both know that this marriage will not last.
But we didn’t talk.
A short time after we were seated, the German girls et al had joined four other people at a large table about 15 feet away from us. Halfway through our meal, out of the somewhere-between-center-and-corner of my eye, I caught braless girl take her seat upon returning from the bathroom. As she sat down, her friend excused herself. As the friend stood, it was impossible not to note the slender legs extending from the 4” heels of her black leather knee-highs up toward to rafters, wrapped in tight black denim, and delineated from her black sweater by an inch or two of exposed skin at the small of her back. My wife was gazing at the fire—rightfully questioning her decision to marry me and then stick it out for one anniversary after another—and so I counted to ten and excused myself, at first wanting simply to watch these legs make their way down the corridor to the restrooms, which I knew were dozens of blessed strides away at the other end of the building. I nonchalantly hustled out but, alas, had counted too long and she’d already disappeared into the ladies’ room. So I stood in the hallway, pretending to be interested in a collection of photographs (in front of one of which my wife had taken a picture of our daughter at about age two and had given it to me as a Christmas present – in fact, I’m looking at it right now), awaiting her exit, upon which I’d follow her back to the restaurant at a cushion of several paces. But then my mind raced to imagine meeting face to face in the hall, throwing her a line in rusty German suggesting that we find a dark corner (that would be “eine dunkle Ecke”) for something fast and that our friends wouldn’t notice. The thought began to arouse me and I started stepping through the logistics, when the door opened and she emerged. I didn’t turn to face her directly or obstruct her path; she only glanced at me as she passed. I was disappointed and relieved.
At the end of the meal, when we passed on dessert and the waiter went to ring us up, I said, “Well, it hasn’t been all bad. You’ve got to travel to some cool places. You’ve got three amazing kids, two of whom you love, one of whom [our eldest, the girl] you’re trying to love. Nobody’s starved. I’ve never hit you, although I’ve wanted to a few times.” I stopped short before, “And I’ve never had an affair, although I’ve wanted to a few times.” We’ve discussed that before and at length, but it seemed a little brutal for this setting – more brutal, yes, than the “hit” line.
The sound of the engine and her request to turn up the fan didn’t overcome the silence, so a quarter mile down the canyon, I turned on the radio. It took only “-ver gonna say good-” from Rick Astley's unmistakable baritone for me to know that “Never Gonna Give You Up” would not be a welcome commentary, so I punched P2 over to 90.1 for some jazz. That canyon has a bit of a history for us: We went to that ski resort for our second date. The date was at her invitation and the location her choice. I drove, and as my dad’s Isuzu Rodeo made its way down the canyon afterwards, I took her left hand in my right, between the elbow rest and the automatic transmission shifter. Our first physical contact, this hand-holding was so intense, so…almost erotic, that it took us both by surprise and set the stage for things to follow (and then, eventually, to dissipate). So whenever we drive down that canyon together—which is not infrequent—the car fills with a thick, unspoken recollection of that magical first descent together, and when the feeling between us is not at its best—also not infrequent—we are acutely aware of how far the passion has fallen.
A few miles from home, I asked her if I could ask a question. She said yes. I asked, “Early in our marriage, we had lots of problems in general. And you were also keenly aware of the attitudes I had about certain aspects of your body. And yet there were times when we had interesting, impassioned, and…I’d say even ‘urgent’ sex. Today we still have lots of problems, and you’re still aware of attitudes I have about your body, but sex is…well, you know how it is, in addition to being really rare. What do you…” “We didn’t have three kids back them. Every couple on the planet will tell you what having kids does to sex. I’m surprised that you even ask this question.” “I’m not talking about having sex on the kitchen counter or in the backyard. I’m talking about…” “By the time you finally get home from work at night, I’m done. You don’t wake up early enough to allow for intimacy in the morning, and you don’t create special opportunities for it on other occasions. I don’t know what you’re expecting. Besides, it's not like I'm going to go hop on a Stairmaster or do a thousand sit-ups so my body can match some ideal of yours.”
When we got home, she went to bed. I watched a West Wing rerun -- an episode from season seven called “Duck and Cover,” about the near-meltdown of the fictional San Andreo nuclear power plant.
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