How to Be Perfect Like Me Page 11

  You know what I also have a hard time with? Those Hallmark cards that have pink roses all over them and the swoopy gold raised letters saying, “You Are My World, Please Don’t Ever Leave Me.” I don’t like those cards. They are too much. When you open the card, you have to get that weird smile on your face and pretend to read the four paragraphs of redundancy inside while your husband watches you to see if he made you cry. It’s uncomfortable. Those cards just seem too . . . needy.

  What’s comfortable is a marriage based not on need but on interdependence.

  I know. I sound so super healthy and also really coldhearted here, don’t I? Stay with me.

  It only took me about ten years of marriage to get to this point. Brian, not so much. He was pretty cool with the fact that I was not the wind beneath his wings from the start. I don’t know how he got to be all self-aware from the get-go. It’s kind of annoying.

  All this not-needing business leaves a great big hole to be filled by God, which is a good thing. Need doesn’t have to be synonymous with love here. I need oxygen, but I don’t loooooove it. I don’t take selfies with it or write about it in my journal or plan trips to go visit oxygen. Yet I desperately need it.

  On the other hand, I really like Brian.

  It’s a good thing, too, because if I needed him he would totally piss me off, like all the time. He says things to me when he comes to bed really late and I’m fast asleep such as “Have the cats been down in the crawl space? It smells like it.” Then, I’m on cat patrol in my head at one o’clock in the morning. But I don’t desperately need him, so when he does this I can smush at his face with my hand and say things such as “Don’t speak. Talk tomorrow. Sleep now.” Brevity is my thing after 10:00 p.m.

  I don’t need him, but I like that he’s around. On a cold night, he allows me to tuck my feet between his calves when he gets in bed, even at 1:00 a.m. He doesn’t even twitch. He just kind of sighs with resignation and deals with the frostbite. And I just really like hanging with Brian. He makes me laugh. He likes to sing along in the car to classic rock and has a rather nutty conviction that he has the vocal cords of Roger Daltry. It makes for a good show. Talent or not, he has a lot of gusto, and this, I think, is the essence of our union.

  Yep. That’s what it is: the goofy factor. It’s what makes our marriage tick. Think about it. If you had a union with someone who was constantly deep and constantly soul-searching, and had emotive goo slathered all over it, wouldn’t you go kind of nutty after a while?

  In sum, this is not my marriage. We don’t do goo. We go through endless arcs. We think each other kind of adorable. Then, we can’t stand each other. This is followed by wallowing in apathy. And then, we cycle back again. Marriage to my husband is generally good, generally positive, and often, very specifically maddening. Perfect wives don’t exist, and neither do perfect husbands, but we stay together. This is a straight-up miracle. Most marriages are.

  But then, watching my husband play air guitar to “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” reminds me that youth is fleeting.

  But nuttiness?

  It’s forever.

  If My Marriage Was a Nicolas Cage Movie

  Me: Did you remember to bring home dog food?

  Brian: Dana! I love you! I love you! Always! (chopper sounds in the background) I’m sorry I was late. I was saving people.

  Me: Good job, honey. But the dog food?

  Brian: ALWAYS AND FOREVER I WILL LOVE YOU.

  Me: Okay, but I just need a roger on the dog food? The dog is eyeing the kids.

  Brian: Never! I’ll protect them. Of course. And hold on! Just wait there! Wait for me!

  Me: For the . . . food? Or you? Are you going?

  Brian: Wait for me!

  Me: A large portion of my life seems to be waiting for you, dear.

  Brian: I love you! I need you!

  Me: And an Uzi doesn’t work with conceal and carry, Brian. Give it.

  Brian: I’m going out there! For the dog food! But I will come back! This is really important! Our lives are in the balance!

  Me: JUST THE DOG’S, REALLY.

  (Brian does a tuck and roll to the back door and peers out.)

  Me: See? If you had tried that with your Uzi, I know you would have hurt yourself. It’s bulky.

  Brian: Maybe I should wait until dark. I spot a bogey at twelve o’clock.

  Me: That’s the dog. He’s the one holding up a sign that says, “Will work for food.” My goodness, this thing is heavy. Nobody likes an Uzi, honey. Just stop.

  Brian: Hold on! Let me just light this flare . . .

  Me: NOT IN THE HOUSE. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? JUST GO OUTSIDE. NOW. OUTSIDE NOW.

  Brian: Okay, but stay here! I’m going out there! (a lot of gesturing) You stay right here!

  (Brian comes in for a kiss. The music swells and chopper wind tosses my hair like I’m Penélope Cruz. I’m really tan. Brian’s mullet flutters in the breeze.)

  Me: Wow! I love you! I’ll wait! Forever, darling! Be careful! Go, GO!

  * * *

  * Not the word actually used. Trying to class it up a bit.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HOW TO

  escape

  YOUR

  family

  I was in a taxi headed to my speaking gig in Florida. Palm trees pulsed past my window. Everything looked like a postcard, with flowers dripping from trees and a sky the color of a swimming pool. My driver was a man named Jim. He told me that I was his last fare because his daughter was getting married today.

  “This is good luck! What a great way to start my trip. Congratulations!” I tell him.

  Jim kind of grunted. I waited for him to follow up on this but no luck. So, I looked out the window, trying to spy some flamingos. There were always flamingos in Miami Vice, which is my only understanding of Florida. I started to ask Jim where all the flamingos were, but he spoke first. I think he figured it was time to start in on the polite banter.

  “So, what brings you to Florida?”

  I took a breath and started my spiel. “I’m an author. And speaker. About recovery. So, I’m here to speak. About recovery.”

  I have learned to make sure to tack on the subject of my speaking at the beginning, or there is awkwardness. Or more awkwardness. If I simply say that I am an author, this elicits much enthusiasm. I think people go immediately to the idea that I am J. K. Rowling. And then, when I explain that I write and speak about being an alcoholic mom in recovery, the happy visions of Hogwarts thunk to the floor. I see their shoulders slump a little. I watch them try to come up with an enthusiastic response, such as “Great job, you . . . alcoholic, you!” It just gets weird.

  I decided to ask Jim about the wedding.

  Jim shrugged. “It’s not her first one.” I didn’t really even know how to respond. Was this bad? Good? Is she widowed? Did she collect marriages? What tone do I take here? Jim saved me from responding by unloading the entire story. The floodgates had opened.

  “Yeah. This is her third one. The third. That’s supposed to be a charm, right?”

  I nodded vehemently.

  “Yeah, so she’s twenty-two. And seven months pregnant. Third marriage.”

  I just kept nodding and, like a bobblehead, kept doing so for pretty much the rest of the trip.

  “Nope. Not her first. Not her first kid, either. But luckily, the first one isn’t with this guy. This guy . . .” Jim waved his hand around like the groom was somehow circling the top of the Cadillac, and he wanted to swat at him. “He’s kind of a scumbag. At least that’s what I think, but what do I know? She loves him. Whatcha gonna do?”

  I scrabbled around in my brain for the appropriate response. My condolences? Good luck? Is it chicken or fish on the menu?

  When we stopped, he showed me a picture of the couple on his phone.

  “They’re getting married at the beach. It’s supposed to rain. This is their engagement photo.” He said “PHO-to” as he poked at the picture. The image showed a blon
de, pregnant girl who looked about twelve in the arms of a man in a white tank top and baggy shorts who looked sinewy and tired. They both had a lot of tattoos, and neither one of them was smiling. As if to embellish this, Jim stated, “They both got issues. She’s a wild one. Drugs. You know.”

  I nodded more. Jim added, “He just got outta rehab. He just lost his job. And they’re moving in with me. But anyhow, lemme get your bags. . . . Welcome to St. Petersburg!”

  “Well. I bet she has a great dress,” I replied as I headed inside the hotel. And I silently prayed for Jim as I rolled my suitcase to the front desk. I swear I heard a thunderclap as I did. Poor Jim.

  And then, I made it to my hotel room. It was a dream. It had a balcony overlooking the pool and a huge bed with creamy-white sheets and gigantic pillows. There was thick, soft carpeting and a bathroom that echoed. It was a palace. When I walked from one room to the other, I heard nothing. The carpet absorbed all the sound. And then there was the television. Actually there were two of them, with two remotes, and each television had about 600 channels, give or take a few.

  I headed to the window and opened the double doors to the balcony with a flourish, which was something I had always wanted to do, by the way. I swear I heard a Disney song in the background, and I started fluttering my hands at my eyes, muttering, “I swore I wasn’t going to cry!” For a good twenty minutes it was just me, my cup of coffee, and the strangers in the pool below. I sat there, looking out at the palm trees and breathing in the soft, wet Florida air. Far off, there was a wedding occurring that didn’t seem to have a chance in hell, but still. I started to hum “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.” This, quite simply, was paradise.

  I know this all sounds a bit melodramatic. But I was having a moment—with a hotel room.

  My hotel room was all, “Heeeeyyy you. Come sit down and drink coffee with me. This will be the hot kind that you never have to reheat because Henry interrupted you mid-sip to look for a Lego that’s the size of an aspirin and you left your mug in the microwave. You always find it there, all cold and alone, the next morning. It’s your thing.” Ah, hotel room. You knew me so well. And then hotel room said, “Also, you can watch romantic comedies. There’s about seven of them on right now, all at the same time. At least two have Ryan Gosling in them. And not once will anyone change the channel to sports or anything with a Jar Jar in it.”

  Six hours later, I was lying amongst crumpled Blow Pop wrappers and had watched fourteen episodes of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. I couldn’t seem to turn away from the host of this show. His bleached hair was hypnotic. And the last episode involved a meatball sub that was about as delicious as this hotel room.

  When I rolled over to exit the bed, a sticky Blow Pop wrapper attached itself to my backside. Hotel Room and I were now in the part of the relationship where we started to pass gas and walk around with our guts hanging out. We were clearly taking advantage of each other.

  I wandered into the bathroom to take a shower that lasted longer than all my showers in a week back home. I also cranked the air conditioning to the point where I could nearly see my breath. Hotel Room knew this was just a way to get back at the fact that I slept with a man who was his own thermonuclear device at night. Brian emanates so much heat that it is like sleeping with a snoring bedroll who also wants to cuddle and sweat on you.

  By the next morning, Hotel Room and I were kind of on the outs. I stayed awake until nearly 1:00 a.m. because Property Brothers just kept going, sucking poor, hapless people in with the granite countertops and stainless steel everything before telling them they couldn’t afford it. It was cruel. Every time, the people absolutely fell in love with the house, and then the brothers sat there with their puppy-dog eyes and said, “Nope. Can’t have it. Like, ever. I bet you’re really surprised, huh?”

  I couldn’t stop watching. In fact, the television played on throughout the night, something I had been taught was one of the seven deadly sins—right next to standing in front of an open fridge—and when I woke up, I felt rumpled. My teeth were fuzzy from the Blow Pop residue. I had a headache from the buzzy television and nearly freezing overnight. In other words, I had a hangover from my hotel room.

  My relapse was long gone. I was writing and speaking about recovery. I was such a sober rock star. And right now, I was kind of a mess. In a sticky kind of way.

  And that was all right.

  It was just fine, in fact.

  Balance is for gymnasts. It’s not for me. Gymnasts are tiny and chirpy, and they can fly. I don’t need that kind of activity level in my life. Balance tells me to take all the weight of my life—my to-do lists, the endless laundry, and all those requests from people needing me to find things—and spread them out so they’re evenly distributed. This is just a bit depressing. Also, it’s nearly impossible, so then balance basically sticks its fingers in its ears and waggles them at me. Balance is like that. It’s so immature.

  Balance is for tennis shoes that I thought used to be for old ladies walking at the mall.

  Balance is for some sort of scary margarine spread that has more chemicals in it than Chernobyl. Spread it on your toast, and it glows. Balance is dangerous.

  I have a friend, Tricia, who teaches yoga classes in our town. Tricia is a kindred spirit because she has a searing sense of humor. We see each other when we pick up the kids, and she works at city hall, so whenever I pay my utility bill, there she is, smiling at me. We wave and I do a little dance because I am goofy, and she laughs. She doesn’t mind the dance; she knows it’s my way of dealing with leaving money behind. Anyway, Tricia also happens to be beautiful and muscled and really good at balance. She can do all those sinewy, impossible yoga moves with the cool names such as Standing Without Falling Over Crane and Look, I’m Still Not Falling Over Lotus Tiger. I don’t hate her for it; she can’t help it that she is making my theory about balance topple over a little. Tricia wouldn’t topple. She’s too light on her feet for that. And balance-y.

  The thing is, when I have watched even the best yogis, I look for the wobble. I look for the slight catch in their steps. The adjustments. The half steps. The stretch and pull. None of it is perfect. It can’t be, or we couldn’t reach for something further out, beyond us.

  And yet, I am a bit jealous of Tricia and her nearly perfect headstand. I’ve seen her do it. It is graceful and only a little wobbly. It is beautiful. It’s why I love the ballet or looking up when snow is falling. It’s a deep breath. It’s Chopin.

  When a singer holds a note, or a swan princess leaps, it cracks us open a little. The note stops. The dancer lands. The ground always comes up to meet us. And that is how balance is impossible. Suspension is exhaustion. At some point, we must put down the weight and anticipate another time when that chord will sound. The waiting is what makes this world bearable, the knowing it might come again.

  I say we trade in our perfect balancing acts for a scheduled running away. It’s where we drop all the bags we packed and take leave of our senses and run outside at night, perhaps to look up at the snow falling. It makes no sense, and that is all right. We have taken leave of our senses.

  Granted, my hotel room wasn’t total nirvana. It was just a lovely, lonely place where I had no dirty socks on the floor, no dinners to make, and a huge bed all to myself. We moms need to get away. We all need to be alone at times, away from family and obligations and endless expectations. When that perfection alarm starts clanging at me, paired with a loud reverberation of mom guilt and exhaustion, that’s when I need to head for the hills. It’s good for my parenting and for my marriage. We can’t always book a trip to Florida, but a half day at a coffee shop might suffice. But I still believe a hotel room for a mom once every six months or so is a great life insurance policy, not just for the mom, but for her children and husband. Pets too.

  And so, I woke up with the hotel hangover. As I rolled my suitcase down to the lobby, I made sure I didn’t have Blow Pop wrappers stuck to my shoes. There was no balance here. I stayed up too la
te and ate too much sugar. And as I walked, I found my steps quickening because I was going home. I missed my husband and boys. The unhinging from reality set me back down, gently, to macaroni and cheese, socks on the floor, arguing about ridiculous things, pushing back the hair from fevered foreheads, and prayers.

  Endless prayers.

  I usually pray for my boys to be kind and strong. I pray they won’t get cancer or bullied or run over by college kids in trucks that barrel down our street. I pray that they will learn how to say “I’m sorry” in a way that is believable 90 percent—okay, maybe 70 percent—of the time. I pray for Brian and me to stay alive and take care of them for a little while longer, even though we are so tired. My prayers swing from holy reverence to terror in a breath. Sometimes, I mutter “God, grant me the freaking serenity . . .” at my children because they are messing with the last, tiny, frayed shred of it.

  The thing is, I have to pray. Life is hard enough. Prayer is my way of saying, “I don’t have to hold up all the bags. I can put them down.” It’s not balanced. It’s not perfect. It’s just real.

  Also, God is mystical. If magic really exists—the whole sparkly, weird, alive, tingly kind—it’s God’s department. I am so on board with that. Alcohol used to make me feel the most alive and lifted up. But it’s just a freak show of lights, mirrors, and tricks in comparison to the real magic that is God. He offers flight lessons, but then he sets us down. He’s real. But he’s also magic. This is not logical, and it makes perfect sense. All at the same time.

  When I was sixteen I was in love. When I look back on that relationship, it always seems to be cloaked in warm summer nights and Spandau Ballet. We would go out in his jeep, and I would hold his hand as he shifted gears—he would lay his hand over mine as he grasped the stick shift, which seemed so romantic then. Now, I remember and roll my eyes. Sexual frustration is so cute when you’re sixteen.