My Fair Lady

I once had a friend whose parents hated one another. They lived together, spent all of their time together, but communicated only out of necessity. Their mutual disdain radiated from them like an evil aura. They were stuck, and they looked stuck. They apparently felt they could live neither together nor apart. Perhaps they felt obligated by their faith to stay together at any cost, but bitterness was etched upon of their faces, no smile lines graced their cheeks, and all they did was compete for the affection of their one grown child. This child was the recipient of many gifts, but not the gifts she longed for the most: parents who loved and respected one another, the gift of joy and ease in her relationship with them. My wife Lisa and I would look upon her parents with sadness and some horror, wondering if, fearing that, such a thing could happen to us over time. I have since known other couples like them.

Lisa and I got married rather young--though many of us did then. She was 18 and I was 21. She was (still is) very attractive in that way that thoroughbred Italians can be so attractive. She was strong, she emoted, her family argued and cursed and were extremely loyal. They were alive. I was amazed and seduced by this. My family were of that repressed Northern European stock. Not that we didn't argue, but these arguments often resulted in lingering, simmering, bitterness. But we were mostly quiet. Lisa's family usually seemed able to vent and move on, providing no one was killed or banished forever. This venting terrified and fascinated me; but over time her mother became a mother to me, and over much, much more time her father became a father to me--once he got over the insult of having his first-born stolen away by this feckless, thin blooded, European hybrid, and being made a grandfather while still handsome, vital, and in his early forties. At eighty he is still handsome and vital--and you should see his sisters. Oy, these Italians! So many of them have great skin and great discipline for taking care of their health. Naturally, my son and daughter are half-Italian. I'm glad of that.

When we were young, Lisa and I were hardworking and earnest. We wanted to the perfect married couple, do everything right. And when we had our first child, we wanted to be the perfect parents. Most of our friends felt the same way. We worked hard, helped each other through school, then graduate school. The problem was (is) that we were imperfect people. She was somewhat rough-cut when we met. I (foolishly) fancied myself her Henry Higgins, schooling her in religion and culture (what little I knew of it). And she was relentless and hardworking, she was my backbone, my reason to try to create value in my undervalued soul. She was a Type A personality, I was a Type Z.

 I've heard it said that no one is compatible with anyone, and that marriage is the art of creating compatibility, iron sharpening iron, creating love through trial and resolving conflict . . . growing. I know that this can be a beautiful thing when it works. But once we'd graduated from backbone and culture school, we struggled to find a raison d'etre for our marriage, as we weren't fundamentally compatible, and somehow hadn't managed to create much compatibility. Our values had always been compatible, but our personalities were not. Our reason to continue, as for so many others, became our children, and our strongly shared values regarding the importance of family and continuity. So, we raised our kids and hung in there for 33 years before the fear of becoming that withered old couple whose marriage was fueled by bitterness overtook us. Through all of our struggles we were fiercely loyal to one another and were loath (still are) to ever utter anything negative to others one about one another or talk about our problems. I still have nothing but admiration for Lisa. This is why nearly everyone (except a few she'd confided in) who knew us was shocked and flummoxed when we announced we were splitting up. Being a Type A, she took the initiative. Had it been up to the Type Z, we'd still be well on our way to becoming some lonely variation of that bitter old couple. I am grateful to her.

Nevertheless, no matter how long you imagine your marriage was "already over," nothing can prepare you for the agony that follows a divorce, and lingers for years. The loss of a good person, a dream, an unfulfilled ideal, the pain and disbelief of your extended family and children, the personal sense of failure and having let down your spouse, others, your community, God, carries the force and destructiveness of a tsunami. I was robbed of my common sense, sanity, ability to enjoy the smallest pleasures, and sense of self-worth, tied up as it was in my family. I was raised to believe that the only two important jobs a man has is to be a good husband and father, that everything ranks somewhere in the distance. I had failed at life.

I had dinner with an old friend recently who said he'd just read somewhere that the job of spouses is not to make one another happy, but to make them more like Jesus. Apparently Jesus wasn't a very happy guy. I think whoever wrote that just might be justifying staying in an unhappy marriage. I understand that. There are many valid justifications. I hope for his sake that he is becoming very like Jesus. In truth, if anyone could possibly have explained to me, given me a dream or vision of the despair and desolation brought on by divorce--and mind you, this was a "good" divorce--no lawyers, everything worked out amicably--I would have fought like hell to avoid it. The problem is, we'd both done that many times before to no lasting avail. I had no fight left, nor did she. Is it possible we could have "worked things out?" Rediscovered a sense of joy in our relationship? No, I don't believe so. We were two very different but well meaning exhausted people who both needed another shot.

Lisa is remarried to a good man we have both known for over 20 years. He knew a brilliant opportunity when he saw it. As far as I can tell they are happy, and, who knows, maybe even making one another more like Jesus. He is her fellow Type A. And I am in the process of ending my rebound relationship with an extraordinary and extraordinarily tender, beautiful, funny, creative, and wounded woman. I won't bore you with the details, except to quote Tevya: "A fish may love a bird, but where will they make their home?"

And to quote Grusinskaya, Greta Garbo's character in Grand Hotel, "I want to be alone. I just want to be alone." But probably not for too awfully long. I don't want to become an oddball hermit like some old bachelors I have known. Unless it's already too late . . .