amazing this hasnât happened to one of us before.â
But Rabih fails to see the wonder of it.
âYou can use my phone if thereâs anything you want to look at,â adds Kirsten brightly.
Rabih is furious. This is the beginning of an administrative nightmare. Heâll be made to wait for hours by a series of operators, then have to dig up paperwork and fill out forms. Oddly enough, though, his fury isnât directed only at his loss; some of it also appears to have found its way to his wife. After all, she was the one who first mentioned the weather, which in turn prompted him to check the forecast, without which the phone might still be safely in his possession. Furthermore, Kirstenâs calm and sympathetic manner merely serves to underscore how carefree and lucky she is in comparison. As the bus makes its way towards Waverley Bridge, an important piece of logic falls into place for Rabih: somehow all the pain and bother and hassle, every bit of it, is her fault. She is to blame for the lot, including the headache that is right now clasping itself like a vise around his temples. He turns away from her and mutters, âI knew all along we shouldnât have gone on this crazy, unnecessary tripââwhich seems a sad and rather unfair way to précis the celebration of an important anniversary.
Not everyone would follow or sympathize with the connection Rabih has just made. Kirsten never signed up to the job of guardian of her husbandâs mobile phone and is far from responsible for every aspect of this grown primateâs life. But to Rabih it makes a curious sort of sense. Not for the first time, everything is, somehow, hiswifeâs doing.
The most superficially irrational, immature, lamentable, but nonetheless common of all the presumptions of love is that the person to whom we have pledged ourselves is not just the center of our emotional existence but is also, as a resultâand yet in a very strange, objectively insane and profoundly unjust wayâresponsible for everything that happens to us, for good or ill. Therein lies the peculiar and sick privilege of love.
It has also, over the years, been her âfaultâ that he slipped in the snow, that he lost his keys, that the Glasgow train broke down, that he got a speeding fine, that there is an itchy label in his new shirt, that the washing machine isnât draining properly, that he isnât practicing architecture to the standard heâd dreamt of, that the new neighbors play their music loudly late in the evening, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. And, it should be emphasized, Kirstenâs own list is, in this same category, neither any shorter nor more reasonable: itâs all down to Rabih that she doesnât see her mother enough, that her tights constantly ladder, that her friend Gina never gets in touch with her, that sheâs tired all the time, that the nail clippers have gone missing, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. . . .
The world upsets, disappoints, frustrates, and hurts us in countless ways at every turn. It delays us, rejects our creative endeavors, overlooks us for promotions, rewards idiots, and smashes our ambitions on its bleak, relentless shoals. And almost invariably we canât complain about any of it. Itâs too difficult to tease out who may really be to blameâand too dangerous to complain even when we know for certain (lest we be fired or laughed at).
There is only one person to whom we can expose our catalogue of grievances, one person who can be the recipient of all our accumulated rage at theinjustices and imperfections of our lives. It is of course the height of absurdity to blame them. But this is to misunderstand the rules under which love operates. It is because we cannot scream at the forces who are really responsible that we get angry with those we are sure will best tolerate us for blaming them. We take it out on the
But Rabih fails to see the wonder of it.
âYou can use my phone if thereâs anything you want to look at,â adds Kirsten brightly.
Rabih is furious. This is the beginning of an administrative nightmare. Heâll be made to wait for hours by a series of operators, then have to dig up paperwork and fill out forms. Oddly enough, though, his fury isnât directed only at his loss; some of it also appears to have found its way to his wife. After all, she was the one who first mentioned the weather, which in turn prompted him to check the forecast, without which the phone might still be safely in his possession. Furthermore, Kirstenâs calm and sympathetic manner merely serves to underscore how carefree and lucky she is in comparison. As the bus makes its way towards Waverley Bridge, an important piece of logic falls into place for Rabih: somehow all the pain and bother and hassle, every bit of it, is her fault. She is to blame for the lot, including the headache that is right now clasping itself like a vise around his temples. He turns away from her and mutters, âI knew all along we shouldnât have gone on this crazy, unnecessary tripââwhich seems a sad and rather unfair way to précis the celebration of an important anniversary.
Not everyone would follow or sympathize with the connection Rabih has just made. Kirsten never signed up to the job of guardian of her husbandâs mobile phone and is far from responsible for every aspect of this grown primateâs life. But to Rabih it makes a curious sort of sense. Not for the first time, everything is, somehow, hiswifeâs doing.
The most superficially irrational, immature, lamentable, but nonetheless common of all the presumptions of love is that the person to whom we have pledged ourselves is not just the center of our emotional existence but is also, as a resultâand yet in a very strange, objectively insane and profoundly unjust wayâresponsible for everything that happens to us, for good or ill. Therein lies the peculiar and sick privilege of love.
It has also, over the years, been her âfaultâ that he slipped in the snow, that he lost his keys, that the Glasgow train broke down, that he got a speeding fine, that there is an itchy label in his new shirt, that the washing machine isnât draining properly, that he isnât practicing architecture to the standard heâd dreamt of, that the new neighbors play their music loudly late in the evening, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. And, it should be emphasized, Kirstenâs own list is, in this same category, neither any shorter nor more reasonable: itâs all down to Rabih that she doesnât see her mother enough, that her tights constantly ladder, that her friend Gina never gets in touch with her, that sheâs tired all the time, that the nail clippers have gone missing, and that they hardly ever have much fun anymore. . . .
The world upsets, disappoints, frustrates, and hurts us in countless ways at every turn. It delays us, rejects our creative endeavors, overlooks us for promotions, rewards idiots, and smashes our ambitions on its bleak, relentless shoals. And almost invariably we canât complain about any of it. Itâs too difficult to tease out who may really be to blameâand too dangerous to complain even when we know for certain (lest we be fired or laughed at).
There is only one person to whom we can expose our catalogue of grievances, one person who can be the recipient of all our accumulated rage at theinjustices and imperfections of our lives. It is of course the height of absurdity to blame them. But this is to misunderstand the rules under which love operates. It is because we cannot scream at the forces who are really responsible that we get angry with those we are sure will best tolerate us for blaming them. We take it out on the
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