LITMIR.BIZ

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the clouds, leaned down, and boomed, “IT’S OKAY. YOU CAN RELAX NOW.”

      And so, I did. I relaxed so much that I survived the following activities:

       • Planning a wedding within six months, and then, yes, actually getting married.

       • Quitting my beloved teaching job where I had been working for over twelve years.

       • Moving and then stuffing all my possessions, and his, into a tiny house that had one closet. One. Also, stuffing one large dog and one neurotic cat into this house.

       • Dealing with a husband who worked long hours and traveled for weeks with his new job.

       • Starting a new teaching gig at a school so large the principal never learned my name.

• Moving again after one year and starting yet another job.

      I think there’s some psychological stress test somewhere that notes many of these events as significant. I am not sure pets in small places is included on the list, but it should be. Ask the pets.

      I, however, seemed to be just fine. I had made my lists. I had it all planned. I prayed. I called my mom when I needed cooking advice. I was doing just dandy. My sister would call and ask, “How is it going? How’s married life?”

      “Fine! Just fine! It’s awesome! This is great!” I used words like that all the time, and my inner English teacher cringed as I used my average word choice. But anything more specific was confusing to me. I was just fine.

      At the same time, I would trudge through the front door of that tiny house, home from a rather horrible day teaching at a school where I never felt I fit in, drop my satchel, pat the very cooped up dog, and head straight for a glass of merlot. It had become the friend I could talk to at the end of the day, using more detailed adjectives. I deserved that wine, after all.

One afternoon after we moved in, I was unpacking and trying to shove too many shoes into that one closet, when I heard a strange slapping noise right outside our front porch. When I stepped out, I was greeted by roughly thirty naked fraternity boys, running up and through our yard (it was on a corner). When I say naked, I mean totally naked. Like, pale naked. Some were carrying beers. The beers hid some parts. Some boys said hello. Others just ran faster as I stared, slack-jawed. I hoped the slapping sound was the soles of their feet, but I’m not sure. This realization was so disturbing I texted Brian at work, “WHAT KIND OF PLACE IS THIS?” and he responded, “College town dear. Enjoy.”

      Well, I did. We lived two blocks from the main drag in this little college town, where bars and restaurants spawned with cheerful and funky glee. Manhattan, Kansas, was hipster before hipster was cool. There was a sleek and sophisticated hotel with a mahogany bar and low, gleaming lights. There were dives, places to dance on tables, and pool halls. There were greasy spoons with endless hot wings and huge hurricane drinks that were sweet and deadly. And, there were margaritas everywhere. Their sticky sourness beckoned to me like a siren, and so we walked down to this happy place three, four times a week. It was never hard to convince the husband. He loved the food and the football, and I used the football as an excuse. I loved the margaritas. I loved the fun. I felt like I was on a permanent honeymoon.

      We drank and watched the game. We picnicked and brought a bottle of wine. We enjoyed an afternoon at the bookstore and then hit Annie Mae’s for a quick cocktail. We met friends for pizza and beer. We got takeout Thai and paired it with a cold white wine. We drank and drank, and we got to know each other. Newlyweds in love.

At times things seemed a bit off. We fought at some bar surrounded by noise and too many co-eds. I walked home by myself, convinced I hated him. We fought on a Sunday morning on the way to church; I shrank from the possibility that Brian might not be the knight in shining armor I had imagined. I shut myself in my room, read a huge Cormac McCarthy book in one day, trying to isolate and punish Brian at the same time. I played so many head games I could have enlisted for the CIA.

      We had to adjust to being married, and it was very hard. This is common, and it’s not the end of the world. But drinking just about made it the end of the world. I don’t think anyone has ever had a booze-fueled argument with a loved one that ended in great compassion and understanding. Put a glass in my hand, and I am always right. This made things a bit stressful. I wonder if this behavior should have been included on that psychological stress test that rates life events: drinking heavily to smooth over all the rough edges. If you check yes, add ten million points.

      One late night I was watching a movie, waiting for Brian to get home from work. The television blared light and sound across a darkened room. Norman, the dog, snored at my feet, and I kept checking the clock. I sighed. It seemed I was always waiting for Brian. He worked very long hours and had a long commute, but I wanted him home. He had swooped into my life, and now it seemed he spent so much of it swooping away. I felt sorry for myself and took another long drink of some very cheap wine.

      Just down the street from our house there was a liquor store that had bargain wine in dusty boxes under the shelves. I would hunt amongst the boxes, priding myself on “trying something new,” such as an obscure three-dollar bottle from some exotic location, like Burbank. I felt I’d hit the booze jackpot. It was like a Dollar General for drinkers. I was well stocked that night with my cheap wine, and as I sipped heavily on my budget merlot, I started to become a little angry.

Brian showed up much later. He was tethered to a job that was very new to him, and he was a perfectionist. This made for quite a few altercations between us about “late,” and “time,” and “love,” and “why can’t you . . .” kind of stuff. This night he was prepared. He brought me a Dairy Queen hot fudge sundae with peanuts and whipped cream—my favorite thing ever. I took it, walked out to the porch, and hurled it across the yard. The ice cream landed in a graceful white arc, painting our lawn. My husband looked on in disbelief, and I sobbed and stomped off to the bedroom. My dramatic exit was slightly dampened by the fact that the bedroom was only three steps away, and I had to do a weird little hip shimmy to get past the coffee table and the dog.

      I had been drinking since four in the afternoon.

      Marriage was the big “yes” I had been looking for my entire life. I had been gritting my teeth and waiting for it to happen for so long, and it seemed that once the possibility of it was finally here, I felt weightless with joy. I was loved. I was chosen. This was all I ever needed.

      Until, of course, I found out that it wasn’t.

       TOP TEN WAYS TO SET YOURSELF UP FOR FAILURE IN THE LOVE DEPARTMENT

      1. Assuming your cat is a good judge of character.

      2. Dating someone who still has a Milli Vanilli tape way in the back of his stereo cabinet.

3. Dating someone who wants to high-five you after he makes out with you.

      4. Dating someone, anyone, when you just really need to “work on yourself.”

      5. Not understanding the concept of “working on yourself.” It’s not a cliché. It’s not something therapists say to make more money. It’s for real. It’s the interception play that ends the game. Until next season.

      6. Figuring your partner will change. If this is how you operate, just get some cats and plants and get bitter now.

      7. Regarding your significant other as you would oxygen. This puts a lot of pressure on the significant other, and on oxygen, to complete you.

      8. Dating someone who quotes Jerry Maguire to you with no sense of irony. Especially the “Show me the money!” part.

      9. Allowing yourself to love Jerry Maguire, just a little bit, even though it has that crazy guy in it, but insisting that there is no way you can have romance, love, and mushy stuff, too. You can. You’re worth it.

      10. Not knowing what you’re worth. Always know your worth. If you don’t,

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