An Over-Romanticized Idea of Marriage

[mallorys_camera]

Ed called. “Is this the Bernie Sanders campaign headquarters?”

“It is! Economic justice for all, and by the way, we won that fucking debate except that CNN is in the pocket of that vile pants suit enthusiast, Hillary Clinton.”

He laughed. “Would you like to go to a Azar Nafisi lecture at Marist?”

“Well, I would go,” I said. “If I were in town. I liked her book a lot. Happens I’m in the deeply, satisfyingly creepy town of Sharon Springs!”

“I figured you’d read her book. In fact, I figured you might be the only person I know who read her book.”

“Didn’t you read her book?”

“Well, I did. But the degree to which I know myself is open to debate. My wife doesn’t think I do at all.”

We chatted for a few minutes about the feminist movement in Iran. And about whether expatriates prefer to refer to themselves as “Iranians” or “Persians.”

“Before I hang up and go back to exploring the Overlook Hotel,” I said. “Did you hear that sad news about Pete?” “Pete,” a/k/a Gestapo Pete, being our overlord in the soon-to-be-resumed Tax Aide endeavor.

“Yes, I did,” Ed said. “I wrote him back and asked if I could do anything for him.”

“I wrote him back and told him I would pray for them.”

“You pray?”

“Well, no. But he doesn’t know that.”

“Oh, I rather think he does,” Ed said.

“Anyway, I think it’s so sad! They’ve been married forever! I picture them in a 50-year stint of connubial bliss. The only thing they’ve ever argued about is whether she could possibly serve meatloaf on Thursdays instead of Wednesdays.”

“I think you have an over-romanticized idea of marriage.”

“Whatever could you mean? I’ve been divorced twice. You haven’t even been divorced – I would add ‘yet,’ except I love Pat more than I love you.”

He laughed. “Well, most people do.”

“Anyway, I’ll be very interested in debriefing you on Azar Nafisi, so take notes and I’ll wander over to your casa some time in the next couple of days to hear all about it.”

“Well, see, that’s the thing,” said Ed. “That’s why I called. That’s why I invited you. I actually don’t remember things all that well these days on my own. Memory’s become a collective effort. This aging thing really sucks.”

“I hear you, brother,” I said. “Well, look. Just imagine my prickly, acerbic presence sitting next to you throughout the lecture, whispering subversive sentiments into your ear and getting stony glares from the people sitting around you. Maybe that will jog your memory.”

###

Earlier that morning, I’d written an impulsive email to Max: Under the circumstances, I'm thinking that descending upon you with Robin in tow over Thanksgiving is probably Not a Good Idea. Why don't I buy you a ticket and you come here? Don’t say “no” as a knee-jerk reflex! ☺ Think about it.

A few hours later, I got an email back: I want to know what the reasons behind your invitation are before I commit to answering it.

This just made me furious. What the hell did he think my reasons were? I’m his mother, and I love him! And it’s probably inadvisable to throw a putative mother-in-law into the mix when you’re having difficulties with your significant other. Life is not a bad HBO comedy, after all.

I wrote him a scathing email back. Do you honestly think my motives are Machiavellian? What kind of horrible things do you foresee me doing to you? Seriously? Anyway, forget I asked. No hard feelings.

I certainly did not mean to upset you, he wrote.

I blinked at this. Evidently, he thinks I’m some kind of deeply manipulative Spiderwoman. Or he’s so naive and clueless that he thinks impugning ulterior motives is an appropriate response to any invitation.

Okay, it’s official! I texted Ben. I wish I’d never had children.

To his immense credit, Ben immediately called me and spent half an hour or so talking me down.

When we were actually together, of course, his response would have been to let me know – either my rolling his eyes, throwing up his hands, or telling me flat outright – what a bad human being I am for getting angry and lashing out.

I do lash out. I’m a mean wrathifier (you’re right; there’s no such word!) I play dirty. And I’m perceptive enough to know just where the soft, tender underbelly is most unguarded.

This is my Sicilian heritage. No shit. I honestly believe it’s genetic.

As a culture, us politically correct white folk are very ill-equipped to deal with anger except as some kind of collective bureaucratic strike.

Nonetheless, anger is a legitimate emotion.

And if an angry person gets acknowledgement – You’re right; that really sucks – nine times out of ten, it defuses the situation, and he or she can let go of the anger.

Possibly, if Ben and I had been able to communicate the way we communicated last night, we’d still be together.

Or maybe not.