Fifteen Years in Fifteen Minutes
I was married one year for every minute I spent in divorce court two years ago. Still think there’s something wrong with that. Not that I would have necessarily enjoyed spending more time in the Jo Daviess County court house that morning, but there seemed to be something lacking. I guess one could argue that this is the logical outcome of when a holy sacrament is secularized: judges replace clergy, legal argument trumps holy writ. Everything was so pro forma, so sterile. Not that I would have preferred a whole lot of drama either. As bad as my marriage ended, things could have been much worse, turned much uglier. Thankfully, all of that transpired prior to our official date with the judge.
Fifteen years is a long time, especially these days when nearly everything’s obsolescence is planned and calculated in days, not decades. Or even a decade and a half, as was my case. While I prayed my marriage would last my life time, I also knew the odds were against it and us. Not only did our bond have to endure the usual pressures of money and children (one stepson), but neither of us ever felt we had the support of extended family, which arguably could have softened the worst of blows to our relationship. Neither of our mothers took very fondly to our union; and both of us heard loud whispers from friends and family members that neither of us were good for each other. I always got the sense, though, that my worse critics were those who barely knew me. Same applied to my ex-wife. Those closest to us may have had their reservations but could also see and appreciate why things clicked.
I’ll never forget a dinner party that my ex and I attended, back when we lived in Chicago and had only been dating. The host of the engagement, who also happened to be my relatively new boss, was incessant in his querying as to why my date was with me. He never came outright and said it, but there was no getting around the feeling I had at the time as to what he was insinuating: I was dating way out of my league, and she was clearly too much of a catch for the likes of me. Well, anyone meeting his wife would not have necessarily wondered why she was with him, but certainly would have ruminated on why she was wearing a skirt and he was clad in pants.
This wasn’t the first of such occasions but it was the most obvious. And while I never felt any sort of inferiority complex while we dated or were married, there were more than a few uncomfortable moments like this. But what really bothered me was the fact that — regardless of how beautiful she was when I met her — neither of us were attracted to each other because of looks. She was “sold” on me because of a paper I’d written for a class while the two of us attended Shimer College; I took to her because of the love she showed for her son. (She had sacrificed a great deal in her life for his sake.) Neither of us were exactly novices when it came to relationships, so both understood what anything of seriousness was going to take. Looks are fleeting, of course, and subject to improvement. Plus, she had the welfare of a child to consider as well.
Where did love fit in all of this? Did we love each other? Though she rarely told me she loved me, I suppose she expressed it enough. More times than not, I felt it. I know I loved her; and as she did for her son, I made my share of sacrifices for her. And for him. I doubt that we would have lasted fifteen years if we didn’t love each other. Now that we’re over, though, it’s fair to wonder if we loved each other enough. Or if there was ever enough to sustain us any longer than fifteen years. Or was our marriage on borrowed time?
I don’t care to get into details, but I’d argue that we’d reached a point in our marriage where want supplanted need. She may have needed the security of our marriage for the sake of her and her son for at least the first twelve years. But once she had earned her degree and had attained a level of economic independence, there was a change in her. I’m sure some soul-searching must have begun, and whatever flaws I had/have, must have come in for some rather close scrutiny. Not being perfect, I’m sure she found plenty of them. And when someone presumed “better” entered her life, a need to be with me was replaced by a want of being with… um, well… “better.”
Given where I am today — single with no interest in romance, whatsoever — , it would be easy to believe that she’s the happy one and I’m the loser. Fair enough. But even though we’re friendly these days, I can only hope to presume she’s happy. And I can only hope that I don’t convey the impression of being too much of a loser. For not only am I through blaming her for the demise of our marriage, I’m done complaining about it, or even feeling bad about it. Because being alone, stuck with mostly me on a daily basis, has done me a lot of good.
This will sound strange, but I truly believe I’m living as I was meant to, experiencing things as I was intended to.
Marriage was NOT a detour, though, either. I WANTED and NEEDED that experience as well. I don’t regret loving. I don’t regret sacrificing. I don’t regret marrying. But would I or could I do it again? Hell no!
I was listening to the radio this morning, and a man claiming to be a reverend called the station, wanting to make his bid for the best “anti-Valentine’s Day” song. His suggestion? “The Wedding March.” I’ll leave that request for all of you young lovers to mull over.
