I’ve been plotting my escape. I plot a daring escape, or a divorce, every spring. You’ll think whatever you want, I wouldn’t expect anything less. My discontent is the direct result of a hyper-responsible nature. There are people who would say I was controlling, we don’t care what they say.
Let’s talk about me and my pain. As you may recall, if you’ve bothered to keep track, the last time I did anything leisurely was during the holidays. We had a short social interlude, where I did not have to conduct commerce but I was nonetheless responsible for delighting a bunch of grown-up people. It is now three quarters of the way through March so you may as well say that my ass has been rooted to this chair for 3 months. It will take the jaws of life to get me out.
We shall examine the facts:
The people surrounding me never initiate problem solving though they are quick to utilize their creative abilities in problem development.
Let’s not even discuss the socially acceptable testimony to unaffordable excess that weddings have become.
Since we’re not discussing expensive weddings, let’s not discuss the fact that young people who are not mature enough to save and pay for wasteful, extravagant, displays are likely not mature enough to make the sacrifices required in marriage.
I made a conscious decision not to procreate.
I married a man who is willing to surrender every last breath in his body to provide for his sons.
I love my husband more than air.
Anything else I might list would just be mean.
I’ve made reservations for 4 days alone in April. I think I’ll last that long. I am planning a 3rd quarter
mutiny hiatus. It is a beautiful diabolical plan. I would leave July 1st and return on September 30th. I would not have to attend the wedding. I do not want to go. I have never wanted to go. My husband doesn’t want to go without me. We are not event people. Apparently, he didn’t hear me when I said, “Graduation is the last blended family event I am attending. The blended family is an urban myth.”
In pursuit of the 3rd quarter hiatus, I decided to get a new passport. The old one expired a while ago. My birth certificate is in a fragile state so I am attempting to get a new certified copy to submit with the passport application. As part of that process, I must produce a certificate of marriage. The paper that I have is not the document required. The bureaucratic machine runs on circular logic. The identification fiasco is a metaphor for my winter of discontent. It’s a dilemma. To get what I need I have to produce something I haven’t got.
You may not be aware of this but there are legions of married women, who love their husbands, living on their own at least part of the time. Masses of them take year long sabbaticals. They live the way they want to and let the adult children and husbands figure it out for themselves. Some of them seek a permanent change of venue and leave notes on the kitchen table heralding new adventures- “I have gone to find a new life. This life doesn’t fit me anymore. You are welcome to join me.” The husbands follow sometimes. They love their wives more than the familiar rut. I am told they have a wonderful time. Or maybe I wasn’t told, maybe I made the whole thing up.
I don’t have to stay here. I can afford to leave. I was taught to keep my own money and I always have. It’s not a secret that I’ve kept from my husband. I wouldn’t take half of what we’ve accumulated- more circular logic- if escape is the objective, why would you take half of what you’re escaping from with you? For years I lived with all of my possessions in 3 bags. I liked it.
My husband, in his admirable desire to provide for his sons, is becoming more firmly rooted to here. I am not here. I have been here for 15 years and not one time have I imagined my real life as being here. In the 15 years that I’ve been here I haven’t bothered to introduce myself because I’m not staying. There is not one soul here who knows anything about me that I wouldn’t blab to a complete stranger on the street.
I know it’s difficult to believe. We literally work all the time. If we’re not working we’re sleeping, when we’re awake we work. I know that everyone with a successful start-up business works as hard as we do. It is not who I am. I don’t identify with it at all. I’m pleased that it is growing, happy to know that it has a good reputation, proud of my husband’s vision. I know a lot; some things I never wanted to know, tortious interference, conditional waiver & release, Statement 1, Line 6, Schedule Something or Other, Secretary of State, on and on ad nauseam, debits and credits and checks, who cares?
Now before you go getting all hater on my husband, you need to remember that I love him more than air. He got up at 3 in the morning and took me to the hospital so I could help Joe die, and for who knows how many days after my mother died he hugged me every single time he saw me cry, he’s bought gold and diamonds and pearls for me, and he believes that I am better than anyone else on the planet. He worries all about me. He has dark circles to his knee caps because he works so hard. He hopes this will level off and we won’t have to work all the time. He calls me often to ask, “Are you all right?”
I know who I am. I am a ferociously, autonomous person who chose to jump into this mess and to stick with it in spite of the inherent circular logic.