the judge
When I wrote the observer a while back, I meant to address something with blog readers. Then, as so often happens, I got sidetracked and never mentioned it at all: So there is no misunderstanding. I do not sit in judgment over the things people tell me about their marriages or long-term relationships.
If you’ve cheated on your significant other, expressed regret about your choice in a partner to me or generally just feel unhappy; I really don’t care. Unless you’re my brother in law. Then I would have to kick your ass. I mean, I’m sorry that you are unhappy. But it’s your life to live as you choose. How you choose to live that life has nothing to do with me.
I’ve had a few people tell me it isn’t easy, or, you don’t know, because it’s never happened to you, and so on. That is very true. And I don’t mean to judge anyone. Trust me. I am in no position to judge anyone about anything. So I’m not your judge. You are your judge. I am, in fact, just an observer. Duly noted? Good. Now, let’s move on to a lighter story about marital bliss:
I drank a few Harps before it went down (or Harp, as my friend Matt would say; apparently there’s no “s” even if you drink four. Or ten.), so I don’t know if I can get every nuance, but I’ll try.
I’ve been trying to spend time with all of my friends before we head into the holidays and I go out west for a much-needed vacation. My friend KC and I go to a neighborhood bar to catch up. KC is one half of a hot married couple but you can’t hate her; she’s too sweet and good not to be liked. We are sitting at the bar and she is relating one of her hot married stories to me and I am all ears.
“And then,” she says, sputtering with laughter, “his mom walked in! Can you believe it? Busted by his mom!” We are giggling like overly-knowledgeable school girls when the man next to me, who thus far has sat, drinking steadily, without saying a word, speaks up.
“My wife was innocent when we got married. Can you believe it?” I can’t mimic his exact inflection, but he seemed to sort of not believe it himself.
KC is used to people telling me random personal information, but she still looks slightly confused, swaying on her stool.
He nods at me, as if we have been having this conversation for six months, instead of six seconds. “That’s how it was back then.”
“Hmm,” I say, at a total loss.
He is a big man with a huge head of salt and pepper curls, wearing a union jacket and drinking something lethal, like Bushmill’s. After listening to us talk frankly about things for the better part of an hour, he is apparently ready to join in the conversation. Then he drops the bomb:
“She never says a word.”
“Uh…” I have no idea what to say to this. I can feel, without looking, that KC is getting ready to explode into giggles. She is shaking all over and grabbing my elbow, but I refuse to look at her, knowing that I will start laughing too.
“She doesn’t say anything. You mean when you’re... Uh…”
He nods, tossing back his drink with the practiced alcoholic’s finesse. “Not a word.”
Now, remember, I have had quite a bit to drink myself. I am running through possible bits of wisdom in my mind that I can share with the man who is married to the librarian:
There are plenty of movies available that show women talking in bed. Maybe you could pick up a few and that would give her an idea of what to do.
There are books. Surely Harlequin has finally moved from quiet sighs to “yeah, baby’s” instead.
Dude, you could just talk to your wife and tell her what you want. I have pretty much settled on that one, but with KC ready to stretch out on the floor and roll around laughing, I decide to switch tactics.
“Perhaps, sir,” I say, standing up, teetering a bit, and tossing my pashmina over my shoulder. “Perhaps it is for the best that she says nothing at all.”
KC chokes on her laughter while the man nods his assent. He gravely reaches for his (refilled) rocks glass and raises it in a toast to me, before slumping over the bar.
I turn and sweep regally out of the pub, with a puzzled KC trailing after me.
After all, I explained to her outside. Some things are just better left unsaid.
Happy Holidays, dear readers. And I mean that in a totally non-judgmental way.
If you’ve cheated on your significant other, expressed regret about your choice in a partner to me or generally just feel unhappy; I really don’t care. Unless you’re my brother in law. Then I would have to kick your ass. I mean, I’m sorry that you are unhappy. But it’s your life to live as you choose. How you choose to live that life has nothing to do with me.
I’ve had a few people tell me it isn’t easy, or, you don’t know, because it’s never happened to you, and so on. That is very true. And I don’t mean to judge anyone. Trust me. I am in no position to judge anyone about anything. So I’m not your judge. You are your judge. I am, in fact, just an observer. Duly noted? Good. Now, let’s move on to a lighter story about marital bliss:
I drank a few Harps before it went down (or Harp, as my friend Matt would say; apparently there’s no “s” even if you drink four. Or ten.), so I don’t know if I can get every nuance, but I’ll try.
I’ve been trying to spend time with all of my friends before we head into the holidays and I go out west for a much-needed vacation. My friend KC and I go to a neighborhood bar to catch up. KC is one half of a hot married couple but you can’t hate her; she’s too sweet and good not to be liked. We are sitting at the bar and she is relating one of her hot married stories to me and I am all ears.
“And then,” she says, sputtering with laughter, “his mom walked in! Can you believe it? Busted by his mom!” We are giggling like overly-knowledgeable school girls when the man next to me, who thus far has sat, drinking steadily, without saying a word, speaks up.
“My wife was innocent when we got married. Can you believe it?” I can’t mimic his exact inflection, but he seemed to sort of not believe it himself.
KC is used to people telling me random personal information, but she still looks slightly confused, swaying on her stool.
He nods at me, as if we have been having this conversation for six months, instead of six seconds. “That’s how it was back then.”
“Hmm,” I say, at a total loss.
He is a big man with a huge head of salt and pepper curls, wearing a union jacket and drinking something lethal, like Bushmill’s. After listening to us talk frankly about things for the better part of an hour, he is apparently ready to join in the conversation. Then he drops the bomb:
“She never says a word.”
“Uh…” I have no idea what to say to this. I can feel, without looking, that KC is getting ready to explode into giggles. She is shaking all over and grabbing my elbow, but I refuse to look at her, knowing that I will start laughing too.
“She doesn’t say anything. You mean when you’re... Uh…”
He nods, tossing back his drink with the practiced alcoholic’s finesse. “Not a word.”
Now, remember, I have had quite a bit to drink myself. I am running through possible bits of wisdom in my mind that I can share with the man who is married to the librarian:
There are plenty of movies available that show women talking in bed. Maybe you could pick up a few and that would give her an idea of what to do.
There are books. Surely Harlequin has finally moved from quiet sighs to “yeah, baby’s” instead.
Dude, you could just talk to your wife and tell her what you want. I have pretty much settled on that one, but with KC ready to stretch out on the floor and roll around laughing, I decide to switch tactics.
“Perhaps, sir,” I say, standing up, teetering a bit, and tossing my pashmina over my shoulder. “Perhaps it is for the best that she says nothing at all.”
KC chokes on her laughter while the man nods his assent. He gravely reaches for his (refilled) rocks glass and raises it in a toast to me, before slumping over the bar.
I turn and sweep regally out of the pub, with a puzzled KC trailing after me.
After all, I explained to her outside. Some things are just better left unsaid.
Happy Holidays, dear readers. And I mean that in a totally non-judgmental way.
Comments