May
15
American Beauty
May 15, 2005 | |
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to take him by the shoulders
and shake
him. Violently.
I wanted to jar him to that
breaking point
where he could no longer deny his urge
to scream just as violently right back.
And the scene
was pathetic.
There I was, reduced to inflicting
physical pain just to inspire him to (God forbid)
FEEL something.
On so many occasions I tried to make myself clear:
YOU ARE LOSING ME.
But he wasn’t listening.
…
Oh, you’re going overseas again for another 6 months?
You are losing me…
…Oh, you are taking a job with that nightclub and your schedule just so happens
to be the exact opposite of my 9-5?
You are losing me…
…Oh, you don’t want to talk about why I am upset that we have not touched each
other in 4 months and would rather not speak for 4 days?
You are losing me…
…Oh, you’re on your cellphone, again, and for the next 30 minutes, will discuss the pressing issue of ordering the 8oz vs 12oz cups for this weekend’s soiree. As we sit in here in Balthazar, at dinner, on our anniversary?
You are losing me…
…P. I love you, but I need you to talk to me. If you can’t talk, I feel disconnected from you…
Do you hear me? Are You There?
You are losing me…
…I’m going out for dinner with Sara. I’ll be home late. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I’m gone.
At this point falling into the arms of another man was easy.
For so many years this unhappiness lay dormant behind
the hopeful whirlwind of planning and routine and
expectation we called wedded bliss…
How ironic, no
one seemed to notice in the wedding photos,
the bride
was looking in the opposite direction.
Yes the snapshots of us,
the newlyweds, were deceivingly genuine.
As if
appearing happy on your wedding day were a pose one
felt obliged to strike.
The joyous occasion shot
staged and contrived, images I considered far less
than candid.
Ironically, somehow in marriage I lost my husband.
Somewhere in that promise till death do us part, I
felt a reactionary knee jerk.
Somehow after legally
signing off on one another, we both stopped trying to
be a couple.
As if our erroneous legal bond deemed us
invincible to the strains of everyday togetherness.
And the license to take each other for granted somehow
overshadowed the foundation we’d carefully constructed
over time. We became complacent. Turned into
roommates.
Until one day, the man I married felt more
like brother to me than the love of my life.
And the
saddest part was, I didn’t care.
My husband, the one who prenuptial was so dedicated, grew ever distant.
Not just in physical proximity but also in our intimate dealings.
And although no marital laws had been broken by his careless hand,
His lack of participation in our relationship became a crime all its own.
Soon enough, our silences grew longer and more frequent
as we grew inscrutably colder toward one another.
After a while, not even my fiery spirit could melt his glacial coolness.
And chipping away at this iceberg became a task
I no longer had the energy for.
Maybe the inevitable came sooner than later because R. was so easy to fall for.
More of a boy than a man. Brimming with hope and optimism
regardless of that volatile time in my life.
Overflowing with "I love you" s declared so boldly and easily and often.
Free and pure and untainted by the fear that attaches itself to love gone wrong.
He knew nothing of the damages heartbreak inspired. He was a virgin.
His desire for me far greater than the fear of our impossible future together.
And although I warned him there would be no happy ending to our story,
he wrapped himself around me regardless.
The boy was a soldier and would stop at nothing less, than holding on for dear life.
This made falling in love R. less of a choice and more of an inevitability.
And R was the sweetest indulgence.
Someone who snapped me out of a phantom haze that seemed my only option.
I was rudely awakened by him–I couldn’t resist. He captivated me.
And that invisible tabooed force called chemistry pushed us together in dark corners
where we’d whisper and laugh and get lost in each-other as if nothing in the world mattered.
As if our actions were came without consequence. He was the itch that begged to be scratched.
And when indeed I would attend to this urge, I’d rake the wound uncontrollably till it bled.
Only to leave behind a scar far too extreme to disguise with a band aid.
I was his rose. His American Beauty. Dangerous and delicate and wild.
And as any child feels compelled to when warned against, he had no choice but to capture me. Indulging in the greater need to own what he knew
could never be his.
So he greedily swiped me from a deep rooted foundation to declare me his own.
Hastily he pulled and yanked and tugged my thorny stem from firmly planted roots until all the
dirt unraveled. And although he knew it would hurt to claim me ripped me away regardless.
He welcomed my pain–dangling roots, thorns and all.
We all know what happens next.
When any creature is removed from its habitat, the
chances of survival are slim.
And now uprooted and
weakened by my displacement,
there seemed to be no
place to call my happy home.
Not to mention R. had
changed for the worse.
No longer was he pure and
innocent and naive to the ravages of heartbreak and
that fear that attaches itself to love gone wrong.
Suddenly his heart caved inward.
As a result of this
tragedy, R became a bona-fide member of the walking
wounded.
As promised, this story has no happy ending.
It is indeed a romantic tragedy and the three of us
chalked up our losses to lessons learned.
We are all
older, wiser, less foolish and more hardened
by the
bittersweet aftermath of a love affair gone awry.
But
we all agree to this: No one in this tale emerged
victorious,
and no heart was left unscathed.
And our
story will serve as a warning to those that seek the
greener grass…
On the neighbors front lawn, the view
will always be lovelier.
Across the street and beyond
the fence–that perfect utopia exists where temptation
lurks.
The same place you’ll find a husband more
attentive, or a lover more perfect, or a life far more
exciting than the one you are currently living.
But take it from one who knows:
Thy neighbor’s wife once coveted and then captured,
turns disappointingly ordinary hanging laundry from
the confines of our front yard. Because it is also
human to find complacency in routine.
Our
restlessness, the catalyst to our wandering eyes, will
cause our sights to be set beyond the boundaries of
our intimate picked fences.
In the end, the
perfections we covet are nothing greater than who we
are or what we have or who we marry. After all, I
have witnessed the view from the other side.
And guess
what?
The view is alarmingly similar.
That perfect flower, The American Beauty, the one that
grows so delicate yet dangerous and wild–
Could never survive once plucked from the place where
she belongs.
And I know now, dear neighbors, that
neither can we.
We’re only human after all.
But the question remains:
How
on earth are we to find happiness together if our
sights are set forever across the street?
Coveting…Wishing and Pining away for that that
elusive perfection that laces her thorny stem between
us…
And our neighbors gated entry.
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