Ex-wife
THIS SATURDAY night I’m having dinner with my ex-wife. What, I’ve never mentioned her before? Hmm ... thought I had. I mean, I’ve admitted to eating my own garbage and I’ve even shown you a photo of my hideous golf-themed pajama bottoms. One would think those two would rank higher on the “things to keep to one’s self” chart, but apparently not. So yeah, I was married. I was very young. I never had any kids, but I did live in the ’burbs. I owned a house with a two-car garage and entirely too many gas-powered lawn tools whose various uses were often the topic of conversation among the men at neighborhood cookouts. (As much as it pains me to admit this, I’ve actually uttered the words, “I really like your leaf-blower. Can I borrow it next weekend?”) So you may be asking yourself, “How could a man once settled down enough to be married and living in suburbia now be a refuse-snacking, bad-PJ-sporting nightlife columnist?” Well, tonight I’m asking myself that very same question.
For the past seven years, my ex and I have gotten together for dinner twice a year: once around her birthday, then once again around mine. Although we’re no longer married, we’re still very good friends. Tonight’s meeting is in her honor, and it’s special for several reasons. Not only are we celebrating her birthday, we’re toasting her fairly new second marriage and, as I learn tonight, the upcoming birth of her first child. Funny — at this point in my life I would’ve guessed that a mildly shocking mid-dinner pregnancy announcement would have come from somebody other than my ex-wife. Go figure.
I’m beyond thrilled to hear the news, and I’m genuinely happy for her and her husband. There’s no question in my mind that they’ll make fantastic parents. But enthusiasm aside, I can’t help but for a brief moment measure my current life against hers. I mean, I was there! I had the pretty (and apparently very fertile) wife, the white picket fence, the oven mitts that matched the dishtowels. So did I make a mistake? Not at all; our lives are both better for ending it. I have a saying: red isn’t red if I can’t turn to the person I’m with and say, “Wow, look how red that is.” My ex-wife and I just never saw the same colors. She understandably wanted a simple life, a simple job, and eventually a simple family. And I wanted a job in the magazine industry that would allow me to publish words like “fart.” Ha! Makes me smile every time.
So that’s it. I did what I’m guessing many of you reading this have done before: I chose to chase a career over a relationship. I’m perfectly happy with my decision — it’s actually worked out quite nicely. Before I was only able to bore my wife with my stupid stories; now I get to bore thousands of people with them. I’ll get married again, in fact, I’m really looking forward to it. And you know what? Maybe someday I’ll be able to tell my ex-wife that I’m expecting my first child. It’s odd, if you think about it: sometimes the most defining relationships you’ll ever have are the ones you eventually choose to walk away from. @
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