I want a husband who wants me.
On a cerebral level, I know Mr. D does. But emotionally, physically… that’s where I’m starved. Potheads don’t have passion.
They’re kind and warm and funny, and make life a comfortable ride—you can be happy going nowhere, doing nothing, finding the joy in the monotony—and then all of a sudden feel broken and bereft.
Mimi and Sarge are probably the couple I most admire, possibly even more than my own parents, and my parents make a 35-year marriage look effortless. Mimi and Sarge have something special, too. They found forever in their second marriage, a blended Brady Bunch family of the 90s, whose kids all turned out perfect (doctor, teacher, accountant, soldier), and who still, decades later, seem to have the fire.
Mr. D and I saw them earlier this month at a wedding, and I asked them the secret to a long and happy marriage. “Compromise,” Mimi said. “And good sex.” I asked Sarge. He said alcohol. The nailed it.
I love weed, and I doubt Mr. D and I would be together if I didn’t. I’ve come to believe drug compatibility is essential for any adult relationship (and I define drugs in the broadest of senses–starting with Marx’s “opium of the people” quote).
But Mr. D loves weed more than me. He’s always loved drugs more than me. I don’t know why he doesn’t understand how much that fucking hurts.
Last Wednesday, Oct. 19, 2016, on the fourth day of the waning moon, I celebrated the Hindu holiday of Karva Chauth, abstaining from food and water from a 7am sunrise until the nearly 10-pm sighting of the moon, an early anniversary present for his health and well being. (I sort of fucked up toward the end… but more on that later).
When I told a co-worker about my fast, she asked, “So, do you, like, bone afterwards?” I mentioned her comment to Mr. D, and he said, “She used the word ‘bone?’ and I laughed and thought to myself, “Yes, but we are going to bone, right?” I may have said as much.
And then Mr. D invited our Weed Husband over on Wednesday night, and proceeded to smoke bowl after bowl, much like he does every night, and became so goddam high, much like he is every night, that I shouldn’t have been surprised that it took a fucking hour (real time, a few minutes) to get ready to go outside with me at 9:30 to find the fucking moon.
I told him why I was angry, and he yelled back, as is his style, and then I drank a sip of the water before spotting the moon and he threw down the jar of trail mix he was going to feed me and stormed off back home, and I told him, when we get divorced, it will be because of this moment. That this is no different than the time he stole my wisdom tooth painkillers. Eight years later, and it’s the same shit.
We’re not getting divorced. But I need to establish boundaries for myself.
Tonight we returned back to the spot of our last ill-fated date for some family photos. I loved it on the night of the full moon, and I loved it even more as our girls monkeyed around before a setting sun. I wanted the date we didn’t have last week. And I looked beautiful, but he didn’t even say it again. And yes, I was hoping we would come home and bone.
Instead, we had another fight, this time about sex, and now it’s 11:03, and he’s watching Westworld, or whatever it’s called, and I’m writing this through tears.
Just this past Friday, as we were driving down to Baltimore, he said he should have listened to the little voice in his head, the one that told him it was wrong to invite our Weed Husband over two nights before.
I said no, that was only his voice acknowledging that his actions would hurt me. It wasn’t his voice wanting to be with me, but why should that surprise me? It never is.