to explain to people that somehow, it’s not “working” for you. But there I was, thinking that maybe I wanted to stay in my marriage and see other people.
I decided that I did believe in love, and in the union Christopher and I had formed. And, quite honestly, I was feeling too overwhelmed by the social messages I had received to do anything other than hunker down and figure out if we could make our situation work. I had no model for the type of arrangement I was just beginning to piece together in my head, so I chose to shelve it and focus on giving my marriage another go. We had committed to this. We had a kid. What else was there to do?
This page intentionally left blank
Chapter 4
everyone else manages to do it, why can’t i?
She made a pact with herself to try to be what was expected of her. They moved to a planned community, and she baked brownies and volunteered at her daughter’s school. She hosted happy hours and wore sundresses. But she couldn’t keep it up. Her marriage couldn’t last the way it was. She thought maybe she had married the wrong guy, or that maybe she was a lesbian. She thought perhaps she just needed to have lovers outside of her marriage. Talking to her husband about what she needed was the only way to figure it out. It was the hardest thing she’d ever have to do, but she had to try.
after I had decided to recommit to
my marriage, Christopher and I moved to a planned communi- ty called The Estates. We built our dream house, handpicking
93
the paint, the doorknobs, and every possible household fix- ture and appliance. We carefully planned where the electrical outlets and towel bars would go. I threw myself into that house and the move with a passion unlike anything I’d ever experienced for something so wholly material. Not until later did I realize how much that energy was about my commit- ment to turning myself into a “good wife.” I was sure that I was the problem, after all. I had only myself to blame. I had been lazy. I hadn’t fully invested myself in my husband and my family. I could do a better job—all I had to do was work harder, and building the perfect house in the perfect neigh- borhood seemed like a great place to start.
I was quite happy for a while when we first moved to The Estates. The house was indeed everything I had always wanted, the neighborhood was beautiful, and everything was within arm’s reach. The built-in community seemed to provide a solution for what I was lacking. I had a toddler at home and only a few friends left from my graduate school days. I wanted married friends with children, friends whose lives paralleled—or at least seemed to parallel—my own. These women, my new neighbors, all seemed to be doing the wife thing so well. I figured if I could just blend in and be like them, all my problems would be solved.
I went to all of the playgroups, moms’-nights-out events, neighborhood happy hours, gourmet club dinners, and candle parties. I took up scrapbooking. And I enjoyed myself. It felt like summer camp, which, barring that
summer when Brian had stomped on my heart, I’d always loved. I made a handful of close friends and lots more acquaintances. It actually seemed as if I had found my place. But, as generally happens when you’re trying hard to be the person you’re not, the whole façade started to unravel little by little. I was pretending to be happy, and no amount of willing myself to be different was going to change the fact that I wasn’t.
Inevitably, the novelty wore off. Too many of the women talked about nothing other than their window treatments and their children when they weren’t complaining about their lives and their husbands. A number of these women had had high-powered jobs before they’d had children and moved to The Estates. Now they were nursemaids and ladies who lunched.
I was basically a stay-at-home mom myself. Although I was teaching full-time at night, I was mommying all day long. Many of
I decided that I did believe in love, and in the union Christopher and I had formed. And, quite honestly, I was feeling too overwhelmed by the social messages I had received to do anything other than hunker down and figure out if we could make our situation work. I had no model for the type of arrangement I was just beginning to piece together in my head, so I chose to shelve it and focus on giving my marriage another go. We had committed to this. We had a kid. What else was there to do?
This page intentionally left blank
Chapter 4
everyone else manages to do it, why can’t i?
She made a pact with herself to try to be what was expected of her. They moved to a planned community, and she baked brownies and volunteered at her daughter’s school. She hosted happy hours and wore sundresses. But she couldn’t keep it up. Her marriage couldn’t last the way it was. She thought maybe she had married the wrong guy, or that maybe she was a lesbian. She thought perhaps she just needed to have lovers outside of her marriage. Talking to her husband about what she needed was the only way to figure it out. It was the hardest thing she’d ever have to do, but she had to try.
after I had decided to recommit to
my marriage, Christopher and I moved to a planned communi- ty called The Estates. We built our dream house, handpicking
93
the paint, the doorknobs, and every possible household fix- ture and appliance. We carefully planned where the electrical outlets and towel bars would go. I threw myself into that house and the move with a passion unlike anything I’d ever experienced for something so wholly material. Not until later did I realize how much that energy was about my commit- ment to turning myself into a “good wife.” I was sure that I was the problem, after all. I had only myself to blame. I had been lazy. I hadn’t fully invested myself in my husband and my family. I could do a better job—all I had to do was work harder, and building the perfect house in the perfect neigh- borhood seemed like a great place to start.
I was quite happy for a while when we first moved to The Estates. The house was indeed everything I had always wanted, the neighborhood was beautiful, and everything was within arm’s reach. The built-in community seemed to provide a solution for what I was lacking. I had a toddler at home and only a few friends left from my graduate school days. I wanted married friends with children, friends whose lives paralleled—or at least seemed to parallel—my own. These women, my new neighbors, all seemed to be doing the wife thing so well. I figured if I could just blend in and be like them, all my problems would be solved.
I went to all of the playgroups, moms’-nights-out events, neighborhood happy hours, gourmet club dinners, and candle parties. I took up scrapbooking. And I enjoyed myself. It felt like summer camp, which, barring that
summer when Brian had stomped on my heart, I’d always loved. I made a handful of close friends and lots more acquaintances. It actually seemed as if I had found my place. But, as generally happens when you’re trying hard to be the person you’re not, the whole façade started to unravel little by little. I was pretending to be happy, and no amount of willing myself to be different was going to change the fact that I wasn’t.
Inevitably, the novelty wore off. Too many of the women talked about nothing other than their window treatments and their children when they weren’t complaining about their lives and their husbands. A number of these women had had high-powered jobs before they’d had children and moved to The Estates. Now they were nursemaids and ladies who lunched.
I was basically a stay-at-home mom myself. Although I was teaching full-time at night, I was mommying all day long. Many of
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