“Every day I write the book” … Some Rastafarian wrote that. Well I do. For over two years, I have obsessively written this book, crafted chapter headings, and even thought of cover designs, formats and layouts for the pages. I knew it would be funny, irreverent, uplifting and speak to people who have gone through a crisis of the heart of their own.
Mine started October 4th of 2004, a normal day. I actually had a massage in the morning and had forgotten my cell phone at home. While pulling up to the massage appointment, I had scraped the sides of our fancy wheels while parallel parking. Urg, what would Mickey say, He’ll have a fit, call me irresponsible and …. Well the thoughts thankfully drifted away as my lovely masseuse, Michelle, kneaded and pleaded my knots away. She is a dream, so talented. Her forearms cold as she runs the length of them along my back after focusing great strength in a particular spot for a while.
I got home and saw that my husband’s car was in the driveway. I felt guilty. A sinking feeling fell over me, oh, no the baby! Damn, I forgot my cell, the aupair had to call him with an emergency. And all the while, I was in dream land! I rushed in, was everything ok? How was Margot? Everything was fine, he and our Danish aupair reported. Then he asked, “Do you have a moment to talk?” My first thought was hallelujeh! He gets me! Finally he gets me!
Two days earlier, I had had a job interview with a large global company to be their new creative director. I had come home in a panic. I knew I had aced the interview and I was stressed about what my working at that capacity would do to my family dynamic, to us, to him. I had worried about him! Anyway. When ever we had a big discussion, things usually went into silent mode afterwards. I always wanted to talk, and he always wanted to forget about it and move on. So I was excited when he suggested we go to the park (my favorite park, World’s End, where I worked off my baby weight). We drove in his new convertible, one of the few times I actually did. And nary did we step through the entrance to the park but the dish was served.
I can’t do this anymore.
What? What do you mean. I understood, but did not understand. I thought we had come here to talk. I thought you were going to talk my language, confess that you were there equally for me, and my career as I had been for yours. That you would support me in all that I desired to do and be, a career woman and a kick ass mom of two.
What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore. Of course you can, we can! We are married. I don’t have to take this new job!
“No, you don’t understand, I am in love with someone else!” And then my legs stopped working, my knees buckled out from under me and I fell to the ground. I just layed on the ground and cried. I cried out, words which are long lost to the wind and the moment. I think I pleaded, begged, hugged him, ran away, I don’t know. You think you will remember a time like that but all I really remember for sure is the moment he said the words and I fell to the ground.
The rest of the next two years is a blur really. I think this is the first day I am really me. I don’t remember my second daughter, Margot’s first tooth, or her first steps. Much of the first year is just a series of images, like from a scrap book.
