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Because I can't bear to eulogize Doug - 2008-08-19
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10:49 a.m. - 2004-05-16
Sing me another verse of ‘That Same Old Song’. After a good long pout, I got busy. I wrote/called a few of my friends and laid it on the line. I had been trying to make visiting me something upbeat and had been dangling bait like a fantabulous selection of my too-big clothing. (Not that I said, “Hey! Wanna come over and get some free fat clothes?” I do have tact.) Offering garden cuttings, custom mixed cds, just about anything to make it seem ‘worthwhile’ to come over and hang out with me. “Have lunch with the crip and get a prize!” Obviously it wasn’t working. So I was plainly honest. Told them how lonely I was. How difficult it was for me to drive 80% of the time. And I needed them to come to me. I hated to use the Guilt Stick. But Lisa put it best when she thanked me for the reality check. She was horrified it had been so long and that it was so bad with me. She said since she hadn’t seen me she’d assumed I was busy. I had to laugh. Yeah, that’s me all right. Off to Milan, Paris, and London for Cripple Fashion Week. What with jetting down to Aruba to do some gambling and the opening of the season in Saratoga and organizing another Farm Aid concert I’ve barely had time to get a pedicure. Bwahahahahahaha. I dropped a note to my favorite person on the wetlands committee and gave her a milder version of the spiel. Also pointed out that the preserve is a scant 15 minutes’ walk cross-lots from my backyard. I’d be more than happy to offer my place as a staging area for bird watching jaunts and such. At least I could visit with folks before and after the hike I can’t do. I called the local taxi companies and got the price of roundtrips to places like the library and the mall. The news was not good. The ride would cost me more than twice the price of a movie ticket and popcorn. I do not foresee many matinees in my future. I was not surprised to find out Podunkville and Mini-dunk do NOT have Dial-A-Bus service as many of the other local towns do. Defective people do not live in Stepford. Each and every perfect specimen citizen is equipped with their own Cadillac Esplanade. Guess I shouldn’t push too hard there, I might be deported. Alex is home. He grew another beard. Looks just as dopey as the last one, only this time he trims it. So it’s a tidy dopey beard. But hey, it’s his face and I do not have veto power anymore. I do, however, have my babysitter back. And chauffeur. At least a part-time one. He’s most determined to get a job (to avoid being drafted by Mike) and the first thing he did yesterday was get on the horn and make plans. Out he went the first night home. I came to the sad conclusion that the only reason Alex and I were such pals back then was his lack of social life during high school. I can see we are going to have the more typical mother-grown son relationship of friendly greetings and a hug or two before he slams out the door or crawls upstairs to bed after a long work day or a longer party night. It’s his time to go and do. I won’t stop him. At least he’s around and I don’t have to beggar myself to Mike for a ride to the grocery store. And what of Mike? I don’t know what SIL said to him, but he took yesterday afternoon off. I know, right? A whole afternoon? And he wasn’t going in for an operation or something? I determinedly enjoyed myself. This will be the last I see of my husband for at least 6 months and I was going to get the most out of it. I’m sarcastic because I have to be. If he were a jerk ALL the time it would have been easy enough to get gone decades ago. I’m a doormat, but I won’t be a beaten rug. He’s more like Stevenson’s Little Girl with the Curl. When Mike is good he’s very good. And when he is bad he is horrid. As the years go by the ratio of good to horrid gets worse and worse. I furiously resent that I have to keep browbeating my husband into some semblance of decency. I have to fight the same battles over and over again. He’ll ‘reform’ for a little while. Being nice to me and the kids. Stowing his impatience and speaking politely. Sometimes even going someplace with us. Like the recent trip to DC. (Though I’ve been paying for those three days out of his busy busy life ever since.) Yeah, he’ll be nice for a little while then it’ll start. He’ll get a little busier. Be gone a little longer. He’ll start grunting instead of talking. There’ll be a sharp upswing in rudeness and criticism. My self-esteem will tumble into the toilet. I’ll lose the will to defend myself and start caving. He’ll start pushing harder, blaming me for a wider and wider amount of his problems. Taking me to task for being a demanding bitch. Whacking me with my own insecurities until I’m a jittery wreck and running to puke when I hear his truck in the driveway. I’m tired of this. Beyond tired of it. And I’m not falling for it. I’ll take the goodies coming my way for the next week or two. I’m not dumb. But I have zero faith that anything will be different in the long term. This is where I have to learn how not to fall into the trap. I cannot escape into work of my own as I did in the past. I cannot fascinate him with my busy social life and my unavailability, also something I did when he went contemptuous and nasty. Showing him my back always got him in line again. I’m really only interesting to my husband when he can’t have me. Rather hard to pull off in my present (and likely forever) position. How unavailable can I be? Maybe I could lock the bathroom door? Make him fix his own dinner by hiding under my desk and playing possum? Besides, I don’t want this anymore. I want peace. I want a steady flow of love and decency and kindness. I want some recognition. The occasional compliment and thank you. I want some apologies too. And those things are out of reach, my friends. They ain’t never gonna happen. My task, if I choose to accept it, is to let go of hope. To just give it up already. Stop with the expectations. I can’t let how my husband treats me be the barometer of my well-being. I want off the roller coaster and the only way to do that is to let go. To absolutely and forever put away dreams of Happily Ever After. I’m trying, but finally giving up on my marriage is a million times harder than giving up my car. Realistic, ~LA
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