In my own marriage, sometimes I feel like I’m in unfamiliar territory. My wife, a corporate planner, applies that same work ethic to our relationship. She exceeds efficiency, every day is orderly beyond calendar means and there seems to be a plan when chaos or disorder evolves. She scrawls detailed lists in her business organizer, crossing items off vigorously, even on weekends.
And it’s only gotten worse. Last Sunday, I suggested a drive to the Kettle Moraine just to see the leaves changing color. She looked at me as if I’d requested we ride over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
I’m the complete opposite: a disaster waiting to happen. I’m chronically late, which drives Tabitha insane. I’m sloppy, despite her pleas for self-grooming, or pre-made appointments for endless services that I avoid: hair, nails, massage; there’s a whole world of them. I slouch, no matter how hard I try to stand up straight. And I’m fairly inept, socially. Would rather just stand in a corner and drink.
I was late for our wedding. It wasn’t entirely my fault. Is it ever? This time I’d depended upon my best man, Carlos, for a ride to the chapel. Yeah, it was Tabitha’s idea to get married in a freaking chapel, and not just any random one. The Frank Lloyd Wright Chapel in Palos Verdes. Cost a fucking fortune. We paid for most of it with family money.
Um, her family money.
Okay, there’s the biggest difference. She makes two bills a year. That’s 200 thou. I’m a school teacher. Spanish. I barely know the language. It’s been so long since I’ve read anything in Spanish other than our required text book, I can’t remember when I did. Pathetic. And Carlos Castenada doesn’t count, Carlos tells me.
Even the sex, which used to be good (was it? Maybe more frequent) has become perfunctory. I wonder if she’s keeping records of this, too. Would she categorize notes by position? Duration? Success?
Often, I wonder, how did we end up together?
The unsolvable question.
She’d have the answer, no doubt. Yup, she’d know.