5. Manhattan’s Most Exclusive Chicken Fingers
The Year of Paying Attention
So there I am, in a suit and tie, gliding along, hey look it’s Mr. Grateful, in touch with reality, equanimous, and gently inclined toward some lofty spiritual plane.
When out of nowhere Sarah brings up marriage, maybe because we’re about to witness two friends tie the knot in the private room of a fancy restaurant. I peer left and right to see if there’s a shrimp, a pig-in-a-blanket, anything at all being passed by a cheerful waiter than I might give my full attention. I remain mute, thinking — I’ve already explained how, having been married, and divorced, I’m disinclined to pursue this arrangement anew. I’ve presented my logically thought-through position, pointing to today’s alarming percentage of unsuccessful, unhappy marriages. Where’s the shrimp?
Sarah looks exasperated. (She also looks good: slender, a direct gaze, nice shoulders, dark blond hair, grey green eyes, like somebody stepping out of the J. Crew catalogue, she’s told me herself, without any hubris.) She feels robbed of the right to simply talk about it. She says she herself isn’t clear where she, having never been married, stands on the issue. A waiter announces it’s time to sit. I’m relieved to have a problem to solve, which is locating Table 4. Sarah and I give our attention to strangers sitting on either side of us, and make polite conversation. I tell the man to my right about how the groom and I cheered each other on through our simultaneous divorce proceedings some years prior to tonight’s ceremonies.
Dinner is delicious. Dessert is indulgent. The celebratory toasts underscore the happiness of the groom since he met the bride, and the radiant good looks of the new Missus. I note that the groom’s appearance isn’t remarked upon, even though he, too, looks good. The happy couple’s collective five daughters from the previous all participate. The bride’s girls are little, eating Manhattan’s most exclusive chicken fingers (the celebrity restaurateur, a childhood friend of the groom’s, snaps their picture saying, “This will be up on my Instagram tonight.”).
The groom’s older three daughters hold champagne glasses and toast their father and his new wife. They’re around my own daughters’ ages. They are vivacious, funny, adore their father, and say nice things about his new wife. This seems unbelievably civilized, but there it is, happening before me. The newlyweds dance the first dance, and damn if they don’t look like two people in love. All are invited onto the dance floor. Sarah and I dance. We kiss the bride, embrace the groom, bid farewell to our table-mates, and clamber into a taxi.
Before we turn in for our long winter’s nap, we rejoin the topic of marriage, and I withdraw into a vortex of fear and resentment. Am I petulant and defensive? Am I, perhaps, ranting a bit? Who’s to say? Silence descends, and Sarah clicks off her reading light and wearily wishes me a good night. I respond in kind, and set the alarm to make sure we’re up in time for me to drive her to the train to Maryland, to attend the wedding shower for her oldest friend. What’s with all of these weddings?
I wake up before the alarm sounds, and something’s missing. Not my embarrassment and regret for saying anxious, defensive stuff the night before. What’s gone is my fear of talking about marriage. Why am I not anxious this morning, when I was last night? Only after Sarah was on the train and gone, and after I talked with a couple of friends did I understand the shift. Why am I afraid of getting remarried? The answers are obvious — my first marriage ended in divorce, which was very hard on everybody. You can’t lose if you don’t play, right? The end of my marriage brought emotional losses, financial setbacks, social awkwardness, feelings of guilt and failure. Sounds like a situation best steered clear of, doesn’t it?
But. But but but. A marriage that ends isn’t proof of anything other than that it was time for that marriage to end. My former wife was and is lovely, intelligent, kind, generous and funny. The marriage ended, like a boat ride, but it didn’t fail. I doubt we’ll ever discuss it, but I think my ex and I are both pretty happy with our lives today.
I know why I have reservations about getting married again. I know why Sarah would want to discuss getting married. Not talking about it means I’m afraid of something. What am I afraid to talk about? Death? It’s coming, and I have a will and a health care proxy. I’m not looking forward to it, but as I write this I’m not terrified. I can talk about cancer, and dysfunction, and the horrors one person might visit upon another in this dangerous world. So that’s what felt new when I woke up this morning, and made coffee for the two of us, and drove Sarah to the train station. She’ll be back in a couple of days, and perhaps we’ll talk some more about marriage. If I tense up and get defensive, I’ll reread this.
Next week: Another Opening, Another Show!
