will say, for the record, that I don’t like Facebook and I don’t typically “chat.” I find communicating in short bursts both draining and distracting. As did, according to NPR, the teenage girl who fell into an open manhole today while texting. Facebook is another kind of hole—arabbit hole, in my opinion—but I will check into the feasibility of using it and get back to you.
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:26 AM
To: researcher101
What’s wrong with rabbit holes? Some of us are quite partial to them. Chagall believed a painting was like a window through which a person could fly into another world. Is that more to your liking?
Wife 22
From: researcher101
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:27 AM
To: Wife 22
Why, yes it is. How did you know?
Researcher 101
36
“S o, what do you want to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” says William. “Are you all set for the potluck? What are we supposed to bring?”
“Lamb. Nedra emailed me the recipe. It’s been marinating since last night. I have to go to Home Depot—I want to get lemon balm and lemon verbena and that other lemon herby thing—what’s it called? From Thailand?”
“Lemongrass. What’s with all the lemon?” he asks.
“Lemon is a natural diuretic.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Didn’t you?”
We talk carefully and politely, like strangers making small talk at a party.
How do you know the host? Well, how do
you
know the host? I love corgis. I love corgis, too!
I know part of this distance is because he’s keeping the Cialis debacle secret. And I’m keeping the fact that I know about it secret. And of course there’s the fact that I’m emailing total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage (just as it seems William is also telling total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage). But I can’t blame it all on the study or William’s demotion. The distance between us has been growing for years. The primary way we converse during the workweek is through text, and we pretty much always have the same conversation:
ETA?
Seven.
Chick or fish?
Chick.
It’s Saturday. Caroline’s here, but both kids are gone for the day—a rare occurrence in our household. I’m trying not to feel panicked, but Iam. In their absence, the day looms without structure. I usually shuttle Peter to piano and soccer and William takes Zoe to volleyball games or Goodwill (where she acquires most of her clothes). I try not to think about the fact that we often operate like roommates, and most of the time roommates is okay, a bit lonely, but comfortable. But a day alone together means stepping out of our parent roles and reverting back to husband and wife, which makes me feel pressured. Kind of like Cialis without the Cialis.
I remember that when the kids were young, an acquaintance confided in me how bereft she and her husband were that their son was leaving for college. I thoughtlessly said to her, “Well, isn’t that the point? He’s launched. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I came home and told William, and the two of us were flummoxed. Deep in the trenches of early parenthood, either one of us would have done anything to have an afternoon to ourselves. We looked forward to our kids becoming independent. Imagine being so attached to your children that you would feel lost when they left, we said to each other. A decade later, I’m just beginning to understand.
“Are the Barbedians coming tonight?” asks William.
“I don’t think so. Didn’t they say they had Giants tickets?”
“Too bad, I like Bobby,” says William.
“Meaning you don’t like Linda?”
William shrugs. “She’s
your
friend.”
“Well, she’s your friend, too,” I say, irritated that he’s trying to pawn Linda off on me.
Nedra
Sincerely,
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:26 AM
To: researcher101
What’s wrong with rabbit holes? Some of us are quite partial to them. Chagall believed a painting was like a window through which a person could fly into another world. Is that more to your liking?
Wife 22
From: researcher101
Subject: Re: Friends
Date: June 4, 6:27 AM
To: Wife 22
Why, yes it is. How did you know?
Researcher 101
36
“S o, what do you want to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” says William. “Are you all set for the potluck? What are we supposed to bring?”
“Lamb. Nedra emailed me the recipe. It’s been marinating since last night. I have to go to Home Depot—I want to get lemon balm and lemon verbena and that other lemon herby thing—what’s it called? From Thailand?”
“Lemongrass. What’s with all the lemon?” he asks.
“Lemon is a natural diuretic.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Didn’t you?”
We talk carefully and politely, like strangers making small talk at a party.
How do you know the host? Well, how do
you
know the host? I love corgis. I love corgis, too!
I know part of this distance is because he’s keeping the Cialis debacle secret. And I’m keeping the fact that I know about it secret. And of course there’s the fact that I’m emailing total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage (just as it seems William is also telling total strangers about the intimate particulars of our marriage). But I can’t blame it all on the study or William’s demotion. The distance between us has been growing for years. The primary way we converse during the workweek is through text, and we pretty much always have the same conversation:
ETA?
Seven.
Chick or fish?
Chick.
It’s Saturday. Caroline’s here, but both kids are gone for the day—a rare occurrence in our household. I’m trying not to feel panicked, but Iam. In their absence, the day looms without structure. I usually shuttle Peter to piano and soccer and William takes Zoe to volleyball games or Goodwill (where she acquires most of her clothes). I try not to think about the fact that we often operate like roommates, and most of the time roommates is okay, a bit lonely, but comfortable. But a day alone together means stepping out of our parent roles and reverting back to husband and wife, which makes me feel pressured. Kind of like Cialis without the Cialis.
I remember that when the kids were young, an acquaintance confided in me how bereft she and her husband were that their son was leaving for college. I thoughtlessly said to her, “Well, isn’t that the point? He’s launched. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I came home and told William, and the two of us were flummoxed. Deep in the trenches of early parenthood, either one of us would have done anything to have an afternoon to ourselves. We looked forward to our kids becoming independent. Imagine being so attached to your children that you would feel lost when they left, we said to each other. A decade later, I’m just beginning to understand.
“Are the Barbedians coming tonight?” asks William.
“I don’t think so. Didn’t they say they had Giants tickets?”
“Too bad, I like Bobby,” says William.
“Meaning you don’t like Linda?”
William shrugs. “She’s
your
friend.”
“Well, she’s your friend, too,” I say, irritated that he’s trying to pawn Linda off on me.
Nedra
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