24. The Worst Thing I’ve Done
The Year of Paying Attention
The worst thing I’ve done as a grownup is to fall in love.
It was my greatest failure, an assault on my wife and daughters. It was a cruel and selfish act. I was now the sort of man I reviled, and most feared being — a man who walked out on the partner who relied on him. Making it all the more reprehensible was the age of the woman I’d fallen in love with, closer to my daughters’ ages than my own. How had I failed to control my feelings? It was little solace to consider how common it was to be a man getting a divorce. After a quarter century of marriage, I had thrown it all away.
I don’t actually believe this, but the argument, that I’m a bad man, routinely appears in my thoughts, arriving with compelling force. In response, I revisit the facts and the justifications, unable to accurately separate them into discreet piles. Some things, however, are inescapable: I was married, and now I’m divorced. I fell for somebody, and we remain in love. I wish I didn’t become a divorced man, something I never wanted to be, but I am happy now. Around this point in my analysis I wonder if I’m rationalizing, justifying, or in touch with what’s true. Having wrestled with this confusion for a few years now, I know to stop, and train my attention elsewhere.
***
We were in Maryland for Kate’s wedding, a couple of days early for the big to-do, Sarah a maid of honor for her oldest friend, with whom she made hour-by-hour grade-school study schedules and homework dates, two sweet, brainy kids competing for top honors (until Sarah started drinking and taking acid and imperiling her safety and sanity, but that’s her story, not mine, to tell).
We were eating lunch in a country-club sort of restaurant, dark wood, equestrian prints on the walls, people waving hello across the room, the natural habitat of the American WASP. Sarah’s Uncle Walter was the center of attention for two nieces (Sarah and her older sister), a nephew (Sarah’s older half-brother), and a boyfriend (me, older than everybody but Uncle Walter). Lunch was jolly, and everyone was yelling, because Uncle Walter is deaf.
The nephew made a joke about how his widower uncle’s name had appeared in a recent country club program. “I congratulated Uncle Walter at the awards ceremony on his getting married,” the nephew shouted, “because the program listed the attendees as Mr. and Mrs. Walter Brewster.” Walter had been in attendance with his lady friend, whose name was something like Beebee or Ducky, and who I’m sure is a lovely person. “Why would I want to get married?” Uncle Walter asked rhetorically. “I’m not sure I want Tim to be hearing this kind of talk, Uncle Walter,” Sarah shouted.
I ate my salad and heard quite a bit about horse racing and family history, and I noticed Uncle Walter, in his mid-eighties, could recall more names, places, prices and events from his life than I can from mine. After lunch on the drive to her mom’s house, Sarah mentioned the father of the bride, saying, “Kate’s dad told me he’s looking forward to meeting you. He said, ‘Tim’s old, right?’ And I said you are.”
A cloud of insecurity gas instantly filled the car. That’s me alright, I thought — Sarah’s much older boyfriend. You know, the child molester. I tried to collect myself. Nobody gives two hoots about Sarah’s aging boyfriend — this is Kate’s wedding weekend! Just as I began to wrangle my anxiety out of the car, my stupid smartphone lit up, with texts from my younger daughter about her financial woes. I thought — everything is terrible.
Why can’t I have a better time on this magical wedding weekend? Is it because on some level I don’t want to? I think — what’s wrong with me? I answer — nothing, you just don’t relish this sort of thing. I go into self-pep talk mode: Just have a good time, be curious about the wedding guests, don’t worry who’s judging you, don’t be uptight about making a good impression, and for god’s sake don’t make a bad impression! The pep talk wasn’t landing, but it continued: Don’t be a party pooper, a crank, a bore. Don’t be a whiner, a malcontent, especially in your secret mind-dungeon.
***
Home from the wedding weekend, I approve of what I see looking back in the bathroom mirror. Not peering too closely at the thinning hair, mind you, well aware that the XL t-shirt obscures a chronic lack of anything vaguely six-pack-like. I’m at a respectful distance from the looking glass, so my wrinkled skin isn’t overly exaggerated.
Maybe it’s because I went to yoga this morning, and my body is slightly achy, so I feel fit, dare I say trim? Maybe it’s because yesterday Sarah and I suddenly were having sex on the living room floor, after more days of abstinence than I like. Broad daylight. I wondered if anybody across the way noticed, but it was too exciting to stop, maybe it was exciting because we might be seen. So, teenage sex yesterday, yoga aches today, and the passage of enough days since my inebriated not-sister-in-law leaned in close on Kate’s wedding reception dance floor to murmur, “Sarah really wants you to marry her.”
She whispered, as if this was secret information, “She’s never felt that way before, with anyone else she’s been with.” I received this news with a solemn face and appropriate gravitas, masking my annoyance. I mulled her sister’s message over as Sarah and I gyrated to the excellent wedding band (three singers!), and was still thinking about it at her mom’s house after we’d flossed and turned in. In the dark I shared her sister’s slurred message. “I’m just letting you know, because I don’t want any secrets,” I said. There was nothing secret about any of this, but I felt guilty and defensive — had Sarah been discussing marriage with Danielle during this visit?
We went to sleep, and got up, and ate the hearty breakfast her mother prepared for us, loaded the car and headed home. On the highway, Sarah said, coolly, “I must have been talking with Danielle awhile ago about getting married, but since you and I last talked about it, I don’t really think there’s much to discuss.”
It’s touchy. I’m skittish. Not about commitment — I’ve rewritten my will to make sure Sarah’s secure if a truck hits me. But another marriage? Divorce is like drunkenness — if you don’t take a drink, you can’t get drunk; if you don’t get married, you can’t get divorced. Furthermore, I contend that remaining unmarried (like Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn, who are so happy together, never mind good looking!), keeps me on my toes — I can’t take Sarah’s happiness for granted. I feel less likely to lapse into harmful expectations, emotional laziness, a kind of entitlement that I’m afraid getting married makes room for.
Plus, my god, there’s all that ritual, the choices to agonize and bicker over: Church or city hall? Big or little? Who’s coming? What shall we wear? How can we make it special? And how can I plead with some higher power to keep up happy and safe and together, despite my own failure to keep that promise the first time I tried?
Next week: Let The Bad Times Roll!
