Couplehood (4 page)

And what
I’m
thinking is, “I’m a schmuck. I’m a schmuck, and I’m freezing. I actually thought this through, I planned ahead, and I’m
still
freezing.”

G
etting dressed is a fascinating little world once you’re married. Especially for men. Because upon marriage, you lose the ability to choose clothing by yourself.

I don’t know when it happened, but it did. I don’t have it anymore. I used to get dressed by myself all the time. I would put on a shirt and pants and go out. In public. And it was not a problem. Nobody was laughing; there was no chuckling behind my back. The fashion police were not knocking down my door. I was fine.

Then, you live with a woman, you get as far as the
door, and you hear, “You’re not going to wear that, are you? Tell me you’re not going to wear that, because I will leave you right now. The fact that you would even
think
to put those things together frightens me to no end.”

And you have to think fast.

“Oh,
together?
No, no, no, no, no. I wasn’t going to wear these
together.
Is that what you thought? That’s funny. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. No, what I was doing was, I was just showing you Clothing That I Own Currently. These are Currently In My Possession, these two items. That’s what this is: an inventory reminder for
you.
I’ll take them off now that you’ve been reminded.”

I don’t even try to do it myself anymore.

“Honey, what do you think? A striped shirt and a solid tie, or a solid shirt and pair of mukluks—what do you think? Help me out. A Beatle wig and a grass skirt, or maybe a goose-down vest and some sort of Viking helmet? Tell me, because I haven’t used that part of my brain in several years. In fact, why don’t you just choose something, lay it out, and I’ll be in the crib until we have to leave.”

E
ven if you’re both dressed right, you’re not leaving so fast. There’s always something to keep you from where you’re going.

Here’s one: We’re going out to rent a video—something,
by the way, that couples in the 1700s never did. “Honey, after you fend off the British, pick up a tape for tonight. Something with Jack Lemmon.”

I don’t know when I’m going to learn that when you rent videotapes, it always ends up costing more than you thought it would. They have a big sign: “99
CENTS.
” You think, “It’s a buck. It’s nothing.” So you’ll get two, three. “We’ll get five! It’s just five bucks!”

Do you know how long it takes to watch five movies? A year and a half. You come back a year and half later and it costs you $1,400 to watch
Fried Green Tomatoes.
I simply refuse to learn.

Anyway, I’m dressed. I’m ready to go. My wife says, “Okay, I have to pee and put on my shoes. I just need two minutes.”

Fine. So I start playing with the stereo—with the presumption that when she’s ready, she’ll say, “I’m ready,” or something that will let me
know
she’s ready, at which point I’ll stop playing with the stereo, and we’ll go.

Already I’ve presumed wrong.

A few minutes later, my bride comes back, ready to go, sees I’m still playing with the stereo, decides I’m not doing my share of “getting ready,” and proceeds to busy herself with something else. She cleans a closet. Starts painting the garage. Something huge.

Now, I don’t notice, because I’m playing. I’m happy. Twenty-five minutes later, she comes in, stands over me.
I sense bad mood. I say, “What—are you waiting for
me?
”

“Yes, I’m waiting for you. I’ve been ready for twenty-five minutes.”

“Well,
I’m
ready. I’ve been ready since before you went upstairs to
get
ready. Why didn’t you
say
you were ready?”

To which she says, “Let’s just go.”

W
e get in the car, we’re not particularly talking. Feeling courageous, I open.

“Why would you start cleaning a closet when you know I’m ready and all you have to do is let me
know
that you’re ready?”

She thinks really hard and comes up with, “Because I want you to take some responsibility.”

I take a nice deep breath. I say nothing. But I’m thinking, “This really shouldn’t be this hard. Before I was married, I never argued with
myself
about these types of things.”

My choices are: (A) Get out of the car and live by myself, or (B) Push through this swamp and figure out what the hell we’re talking about.

I go with Choice B, because, frankly, I really like the way her hair smells, and I know I would miss that.

“Okay,” I venture. “Responsibility for
what?
”

She says, “For getting us out. It shouldn’t be just
me.
I don’t want to be the policeman here.”

“How are you the policeman?”

“I don’t know. I just always feel like the policeman and I don’t like it.”

You see, this is something you couldn’t possibly know going in: this woman hates feeling like a policeman. I didn’t even know that was a category of things that could go bad in a relationship: “Feeling-Too-Much-Like-Uniformed-Civil-Servants.” You can only learn this on the job. (And again—this may only be an issue if you marry
my
wife, which, frankly, what are the chances of that?)

So we drive and we talk it out, and in short order, the smoke has cleared and she feels much better. I, by contrast, have a pounding in my eye that won’t go away, and a huge, slow burning, festering resentment.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don’t take responsibility? That’s so not true. I really hate that kind of comment—like I’m constantly
auditioning
”

She’s calm now. “How are you auditioning?”

“BECAUSE. What did you—just MEET me? You KNOW I take responsibility. And ANOTHER thing …”

And now
I
get to be nutty for a few miles.

It turns out, I have a thing about “Auditioning” that makes even less sense than her “Policeman” thing.

But the beauty part is, in any couple only one person
has to be sane at a time. You talk them out of
their
tree, so they can be coherent enough to talk you out of
your
tree. So ultimately, all the time you spend trying to understand the other person isn’t even for their sake. You just want to make sure they’re ready to handle
your
next psychotic episode.

Which proves what I’ve always suspected: Marriage is just an elaborate game that allows two selfish people to periodically feel that they’re
not.

T
he great thing about being selfish and self-centered is you can do it anywhere, with anybody. It’s not restricted to those you love. And it’s not just me. Everyone is self-centered. But I’m really only concerned about
myself
here.

I know, for example, that I’m selfish when I
drive.

The True Ugliness that lurks in our souls doesn’t always come out, but in traffic, it comes out plenty.

When you’re stuck in traffic, you hate everybody. “Oh, look at this idiot. Why doesn’t he just GO? He sees I’m here, doesn’t he? Why wouldn’t he go? Come on, go go go go
GO!
If you would just go, there wouldn’t
be
traffic. That’s why there’s traffic: your failure to go!”

We’ve got places to be and we want to be there
NOW.
It doesn’t matter where. You could be on your way to the dentist to get raw nerves sucked out of your jaw, and you’d still be upset. “Hey, I’m going to miss the whole nerve-sucking thing. Come ONNNNN.”

It’s the guy directly in front of you you really hate. Somehow this is
his
fault. “If
he
would go, they’d
all
go.… Come ONNNNNNNN!”

And you obsess about this guy. You’ve been staring at the back of his head so long, you want to
be
him. “If I could be where he is, I would be so happy. Let me be in front of
him.
That’s all I want. If I could just be where he is now, I would never ask for anything again, I swear.”

Of course when you get to where he is, you’re still not happy. “Look where he is
now
, the lucky sonovabitch. He’s still doing better than me. All these people are looking back and laughing at me, I know it.”

The only way to feel better is to turn around and look at the people behind
you.
“Yeah, well at least I’m ahead of
those
losers.” We just want to be better off than somebody.

T
he only time we’re nice on the road is if an ambulance has to get through. Suddenly everyone cooperates. People you’ve been cursing at and giving the finger to are suddenly your good friends. You put away your differences,
and peace and harmony prevail as you clear a path for your neighbors in need.

Then, it’s a mad rush for the Ambulance Wake. Everybody wants to get behind that ambulance. “I saw it first, buddy. I pulled over first, so I get to go ahead of you —that’s how it works.”

It’s the Selfish Monster.

Ever been stuck behind an accident, and when you finally see the wreckage, you’re actually
happy
? “Here we go, here’s the problem. Things should pick up now, soon as we pass this carnage.”

And when you tell your friends about it later, it’s all about
you.

“Sorry I’m late, some guy’s car exploded.
Right in front of me.
Can you believe my luck? Lost a good fifteen minutes.”

S
ometimes, I must admit, I
become
the very people that I hate. I get distracted and kind of forget to drive. I’ll sit at a green light for eight minutes because I forgot to look up. I’ll slow down to twenty miles an hour because I forgot to press down my foot. This is less dangerous than driving fast and reckless, but actually more annoying to those in the car with you.

“Are you going to go around this guy or what?”

“He’s going to go, relax.…”

“There’s no driver. It’s an abandoned car.”

“Oh … I knew that.”

D
riving with your loved one can strain the relationship because, though you’re doing it together, only one person’s in charge. The passenger is your prisoner.

“Do you want
me
to drive?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I don’t like the way you’re driving.”

“How am I driving?”

“I don’t know, but you’re making me crazy.”

“
You
want to drive?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad,
I’m
driving.”

It’s not like fighting over the TV clicker, where if the battle for control gets ugly, one of you can leave the room. Here, the doors are locked and you’re doing sixty. Nobody’s going anywhere. (Which is essentially Marriage, but with High-Speed Motion thrown in to make it interesting.)

I
f you’re ever on a long car trip together, you find you start to recognize the cars and drivers around you. You start to judge them, like you know them.

“Look at that guy in the Mitsubishi—he’s still smoking. He really should cut down.… I’m going to talk to him next time we stop.”

“That lady in the RV. That’s her fourth donut. How does she do that? Does she not
know
what she looks like?”

S
ometimes if you’re stuck in traffic with the same people, mile after mile, they genuinely become your neighbors. These are the people you turn to for solace. You complain to each other. First, you make eye contact. Then, little sympathetic sighs and dismissive waves of disgust.

“Ahhhhhhh, pppfffhhh.” (I don’t believe I’ve ever spelled that out before.)

Once in a while, you even roll down the window and chat. “Hey, can you believe this?”

“Well,
this
sucks, doesn’t it? How is it over in your lane? Sucks?”

“Here, too. Sucks. Guess it sucks everywhere, huh?”

You develop a relationship with these people. Which is why I get upset when somebody tries to pass. It’s like they’re breaking up the relationship.

Your first response? You’re shocked. You didn’t see this coming. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Why? Where are you going? I thought we all agreed we’d stick it out together.… What is it—you want to see other cars?
Is that it? I guess you need some
space
of your own, huh? Well, fine. Go.… Just go.”

And the great moment of revenge: Two minutes later, they come crawling back. They want back in. But, of course, you don’t let them in. You’ve been hurt, scorned—make them sweat.

“Hey, look who’s back. I guess life in the fast lane didn’t work out like you planned. Suddenly I’m looking good to you, huh? Well, get in line, baby.”

A
lot of times, the things you do when you’re alone aren’t necessarily selfish, they’re just dopey. But you don’t realize it till you see them bouncing off someone else.