AFTER I wondered if the saleslady could help me find the perfect gift for my wife, she asked if I could describe her a bit.
“She’s nice, down to earth, empathetic, smart without flaunting it, an understated beauty, funny, a tad offbeat, not afraid of being feminine, but reasonably low maintenance,” I volunteered. Moments later, I picked out something after she assured me, “I think your wife will love this.” As I carried it to my car, I thought – Great. Now all I have to do is find “my wife”.
I once fantasized that the above happened. Back in the days when I figured marrying Ms. Right would help me avoid the over 50% divorce rate as effectively as the other way I’ve managed to avoid it. By not getting married.
A la the politician’s quote about his own fantasies, I “have no plans” to get married, but should a compelling reason to do so present itself, I won’t rule it out. However, unlike politics, there haven’t been enough viable candidates. Or maybe there were more than I realized.
Perhaps the prescription for love is like the one for new eyeglasses. Things may look fuzzy in the beginning, but maybe I should have withstood an early headache or two before things kicked in and allowed me to possibly see clearer than ever.
Instead, I’ve basically been a long-time dictator in the world of I-Ville. What I say goes, and my one victim, “I,” kind of likes it that way. The longer you spend without somebody else holding a mirror up to your idiosyncrasies, the more idiosyncratic your world becomes.
Is my dictatorship a threat to my true happiness? Do I need somebody to, in effect, “invade” my world and overthrow me? Democratically ruled people live longer, as do married people. But what if after transitioning into the democracy of We-Ville, there’s the clear and present danger of continued fighting – especially if another dictator takes over?
I’d opted for I-Ville before I was supposed to be born. I’d broken free a month early, leaving behind my former cohabitant, my twin sister, for another seven-and-a-half minutes. I couldn’t even commit to a full-term pregnancy.
Could my pre-natal sibling have impacted my future chronic need for my own space? You married quintuplets out there needn’t answer that.
Had I taken the plunge when many of my friends first did, there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance that my ex would be among the sea of exes out there. Would our parting have been amicable? Would money have screwed things up, or would we have simply drifted apart? So many contenders. See that one whose eyes glaze over when it isn’t her turn to talk? Imaginary ex marks the spot.
Some divorced women will only seek out a fellow divorcé, as opposed to an untested guy like me. If marriages were akin to presidential terms, I’d wonder about this logic, seeing as how subsequent terms are usually less successful.
Then again, I’m missing a woman’s ultimate seal of approval, her willingness to take my name, along with the ultimate seal of disapproval, her willingness to return my name, after quite possibly calling me a name. Shouldn’t the lack of these two seals cancel each other out?
When given the opportunity to date a recently divorced woman, it’s no wonder I feel a special responsibility. In the relationship relay race of life, her ex has, in effect, handed her off to me, who’s now faced with the challenge of proving his negatives were aberrations and that guys are worthy after all.
He was cheap? … Order anything you’d like! … He didn’t know how to have fun? … After dinner, let’s go dancing in a hot air balloon! … Your marriage failed, because it was a mirror on him, and he never wanted to look there? … Check, please.
oppositeandy 