Drinking to the point of poisoning while playing computer games — that's Rob's weapon of choice. He wounds himself and points the finger at me. I don't pay enough attention, he told our therapist. And she has all the sympathy in the world for him. How nice.
After a whopping near-death episode last spring he stopped drinking for two months to examine his relationship to alcohol, and when he started again he put rules in place: He'd have no more than two drinks per day, and do that no more than two times per week.
That went really well for him. His memory and response time in conversation improved, and he seemed more confident. Then I went out to the Madonna concert last week and he retaliated. (It always happens when I go out with friends or leave town on business for a day or so, leaving him alone.)
Our therapist agreed with my hastily developed strategy to react to his recent setback with no reaction. I shouldn't admonish him, but I also can't take blame or be the one to make him feel better after he acts out.
You know how I said having sex was like going to the gym? There's something else that fits the same bill. Visiting the in-laws. A good daughter in-law should make the effort. She may never want to, and may get out of the habit, but once she's there, it can be enjoyable, and she might even feel good about herself afterward.
That was my attitude when I went to see my in-laws last weekend. I made myself go because I knew it was the right thing to do. In fact, I suggested the trip! And it was infinitely bearable.
A friend forfeited her Madonna concert ticket when she went away on sabbatical to Italy. I'd rather be in her shoes roaming the Tuscan landscape, but since that's not possible, I was happy to accept her ticket.
I don't know Madonna's recent music, but can sing every word of her first few hits "Borderline," "Lucky Star," and "Holiday" — and even remember the grapevines and jazz hands of the routines I made up to go with them 25 years ago! Anyway, I knew the show would be a mixed-media extravaganza of video and dance — why not indulge in a little escapism, rock-and-roll style?
But hours before the show, Madonna publicist announced her and Guy Ritchie's plans to divorce. So what might have been for me a carefree evening of utter abandon, singing and dancing along with Madge, turned into constant analysis of her every move. Ooh, was that sadness in her voice when she sang that lyric? Was she referring to her own pain in that song?
I'm switching gears for a bit from the thirtysomething woman who has contemplated separation to the adult child of divorce still dealing with the fallout.
Quick summary: To the extent lines were drawn, I suppose I sided with my mother. She left because when we learned my father cheated on her for 20 years with my best friend's mother. But now she has withdrawn from my brother, sister, and me.
We hear from her infrequently, and when we do, it's never to discuss our lives, but hers, which is moneyed compared to the rest of ours. She has remarried a man we don't get, in the sense that he's from the other side of the political aisle — from us, from her, from anyone I've ever known. (He's off the map. He's against Title IX!)
Knowing I'm running the risk of harping about my sex dry spell too much, I've decided not to write about it again until something gives. That is, starting right after this post — I just couldn't shut it down without passing along these nuggets of hilarious wisdom from a couple of good friends!
One says regular sex is like going to the gym: You know it's good for you, you should go, you always like it when you get there, and you feel great afterward. It just takes a lot of effort to get out the door...particularly if you haven't been there in a while.
Another points out: "There are so many external and internal expectations about sex that can doom it. Why can't we just unscrew our heads and screw!"
Ah, friends. The best ones know when (and about what!) we could use a chuckle.
Rob is away tonight. He's undergoing a sleep study in hopes of uncovering why he wakes so abruptly in fear at night. Poor guy, he's probably sick in the head from lack of sex!
I may have doubts about my marriage, or the relevance of the institution for me, but I do not doubt its importance to countless millions. I've not yet discussed here that I'm an active supporter of same-sex marriage rights.
My community of friends considers it one of the major civil rights issues of our times. My sister is devoting her career to the protection of same-sex marriage in Massachusetts, and in Rob's and my circle of close friends we have two sets of married women, one of which is raising an adopted daughter.
Sickeningly, thirty-seven states define marriage in such a way to prohibit the marriage of same-sex couples. Vermont reversed this trend when in 2000 it enacted civil union legislation for gay and lesbian couples and rejected constitutional amendments limiting marriage.
Rob and I have been cutting back on driving lately, so until we were barreling north toward New Hampshire this weekend, I had forgotten the pact I'd made with myself to always be the driver when the two of us are in the car.
Rob doesn't get road rage, but he drives as if other drivers were the punks who bullied him in grade school, and this is his chance to show them who's boss. He is unforgiving, and never allows other drivers or even pedestrians the go-ahead.
He vies for the better position in a merge though it puts the passenger side in danger of being hit. He tailgates, a dangerous move made more so because his reflexes are molasses slow. For my own safety, I watch for brake lights on the highways so I can tell him to STOP! It takes him forever to notice and react on his own.
