Two Weeks

Things were not always so dull and regimented, for Alex and I had met in college, when life was Woodstock and shoes and bras were optional. We adored each other instantly. I knew even then that we had nothing in common, but it didn’t matter, because we had an extremely deep connection. Much of that deep connection, of course, was manifested through sex, food, and a touch of marijuana, but it was intensely felt nevertheless. We never liked the same books. To Alex, heavy reading is the Atlas. We never related to the same music, movies, or the same people. He didn’t dance anymore. Dancing is the perfect metaphor for sex and rockin’ the nasty with Alex was a thing of the past. It’s pretty clear. You’ve either got the pulse of kick-ass funk or the curse of the white man’s overbite. Alex wasn’t much of a warm, attentive type, but our history was long, and we just fell into a lifetime of wedded bliss. Years of great sex turned into, 1. sleeping with the kids or the dog, or both the kids and the dog, 2. do-it-as-fast-as-you-possibly-can-and-get-the-job-done sex, 3. do-it-while-you-are-half-sleep-and-don’t-remember-it sex, 4. the unaffordable but efficient $179-a-night hotel sex, 5. updating-your-inventory-list-while-having-it sex, 6. and, finally, every man’s dream: no sex at all. Oy. Alex rubs my feet, asks me if I am thirsty in the middle of the night, and usually sleeps in another room. We have all but survived a sizeable household of kids, are closing in on the twenty-fourth wedding anniversary, and haven’t had a decent conversation for at least a year. I’m relatively sure that Alex will never dance again. We live in a bland, upscale Midwest suburb, which to some Caucasian types sounds like utopia, but to me is living in hell. This town is known for inventing Jack and Jill bathrooms, having thirteen-hundred dollar swing sets, super-sized SUV’s, ten-foot ceilings and twenty-five-foot egos. The women here are flawless, diamond-studded Stepford housewives whose children don’t drink, swear or share bedrooms. My one neighbor was aghast when my daughter yelled “dickhead” out of the window to her brother when she was three years old. Is it that people don’t want you to see that dickhead side of them, or do they actually not own one? I haven’t determined that yet. I am a huge dickhead, and I am proud that at least I know it. Raising children is a very satisfying and rewarding experience, but making the transformation into the consummate “wipe me, Mommy” person does have its drawbacks. If you aren’t careful, it takes a great deal of your confidence away and can make you feel as articulate and attractive as a bag-lady without a pulse. For years, I forgot simple phrases and kept losing what I wanted to say or how to say it. My consignment clothes were stained very badly with the badge of dishonor, pleading, “someone, anyone - please just give me a break.” I don’t know who I am anymore. I transport myself virtually as if I’m flying over countries I’ve never visited. I fret over uncertainties and dwell on mindless details. I corner strangers on the street with hyperactive conversation after only one cup of coffee. I find this planet absurd yet extraordinary, and am gripped with anxiety that life is fleeting knowing my time to make my mark is far too short. I obsess over leaving this earth and making a difference somehow, even in the line at the grocery store. I stay up at night worrying about lost children who aren’t my own, people being buried alive under earthquake rubble, my daughter driving alone at night, mother cows crying for their babies, and my family members drowning in my pool when they aren’t even anywhere in the state. It’s exhausting. I refuse to waste precious time reflecting about who will be the next neighborhood watch co-chair, worry about if my diamond ring is polished or how much dust is on my bedroom ceiling-fan when life seems so unfair to so many. Why do I feel compelled to think that I can rise above suburban complacency, unearth my potential of greatness, and appreciate the sheer power of my bizarre eccentricities when even finding a decent crease-color for my eye shadow is beyond my capacity? I am so in love with this strange, wonderful, brilliant and scary world that I am in awe. Am I the only one who stares out into the starry sky at night and wonders where in the hell we are?