 |
|
|
|
What's your reaction to this column? Share your thoughts on the MESSAGE BOARD
Also From Modern Humorist: Colin Powell's Pop Pals Dear Dick: A Letter From George W. Boredom in the Court Behind the Music Napsteropoly Macdonna's Wedding Box Set of the Year Rock 'n' Roll Factory Worker Phish Fan Resume |
|
Let There Be Love by Bob Lefsetz 1 My wife moved out 11 years ago. Standing under the tent at my wedding, observing her ballroom dancing with John, the owner of the property, stunned that she knew how to do this so elegantly when she'd never mentioned her ability in the three years of our living together, I told myself I could get a divorce. I knew she wasn't the one. There was a certain banter missing. She had this unpredictability. That made it difficult to know where she was coming from. What she would do. But I was 34 years old. She told me I was the one. My shrink told me to marry her so he wouldn't have to worry about me at night. I took the plunge. I was there, but I felt like an observer. Hovering in the background at a life-changing event that I was one of two main participants in. Eighteen months later. Just when I was getting in the groove. Thinking that maybe this COULD be forever. She rolled over in bed and asked, "Can this marriage be saved?" I remembered the line from some old magazine. I thought she was joking. But this turned out not to be the case. Even though she said she couldn't imagine coping if anything happened to me. Even though she'd told me I could never leave her. She picked up her things and moved out. It was crushing. But the full totality didn't sink in until seven months later. At the holidays. At a horrible New Year's Eve party in Laurel Canyon instead of eating the traditional midnight dinner at the Chantecleer in Vermont. I was alone. And it SUCKED! 2 Eleven months after my wife moved out, the phone rang on a Friday afternoon. It was a girl at Capitol Records. She was finally putting a project to bed, after 12 months. The Paul Shaffer CD had not reached expectations. She had an empty feeling in her stomach. She dialed my number. She thought I was the only one who could understand. They say you can never meet anybody sitting on your ass at home. They're wrong. I stopped by her office after having lunch with the publicity director two weeks later. There was that instant connection. That elusive thing missing in my marriage. She suggested dinner. We went out for Thai food on Hollywood Boulevard. A torrid romance ensued. I felt alive. One late summer afternoon, lying on the swing on her porch in Beachwood Canyon, it hit me. I had it covered. I was in love again. I had a relationship. This year I WASN'T spending the holidays alone. Then the phone rang. My wife calling out of the blue to say she was ready to get back together. I told her I was in a new relationship. Her tone changed. From one of control to shock. This is something she hadn't contemplated. She called me back two days later, crying. Saying she was leaving town. I think she wanted me to cave. But I wasn't about to drop my new girlfriend. I'd been through a torturous year. I'd found Ms. Right. I'd moved on. I was done. But this one phone call placed a wedge between me and the record company girl. As good as the banter was, I realized she just didn't understand me, just didn't care about me, like my wife did. I tried to hang in there. But she got the vibe. It was over. And when Thanksgiving and Christmas snuck up on me, I was alone again. 3 Wednesday at the bookstore Lea told me she was going to Vermont. She had enough frequent-flier miles. She didn't care if the first week of December was the wrong time of the year. She and her boyfriend were off on an ADVENTURE! I haven't been back to Vermont since my wife moved out. My mother's threatening to sell our house there. For no one is using it. But I just can't go. I'm afraid of the memories. The emptiness. But after telling Lea not to miss the Ben & Jerry's factory. To stop by in Middlebury at my alma mater if she was driving through. I realized. With a girlfriend. With someone beside me who understood me. I could cope with anything. I could go to Vermont. I could deal with my mother on her own turf in Connecticut. I could live. Yesterday was Thanksgiving. The day before had been action-packed. A ton of email. Hiking. A birthday party. But on my drive over to Kate's for the annual dinner I got that sinking feeling in my stomach. The same one I had after exiting that house in Laurel Canyon 11 years ago. This is too tough. I can't handle it. I can't go through this. Another holiday season sitting in my empty house in L.A. No one even around town. Off to Aspen. Or Hawaii. With their spouses. Families. I couldn't cope with another white-knuckle December adventure. I had to GO somewhere. Yet there was nowhere to go. No one to go with. |
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
