Constance’s plane touches down later this afternoon following her week in Minneapolis, and I’m vacillating between smothering her with my feral affection and falling at her feet, not to worship her as a false idol, but to hibernate.
I’m exhausted from feeling so somber. Constance’s absence coupled with the mass of boxes and packing materials cluttering our usually spotless home and Aunt Dee’s illness have wiped me out.
On top of that, Constance was uncharacteristically dour on the phone last evening, a conversation that had been postponed until 11:15 PM after several rueful games of phone tag (I had band practice, she was at a Twins baseball game). We’ve missed each others call so frequently this week that when we finally connected, our phone tag more closely resembled a shoving match – of the verbal sort, of course.
“Everybody at this meeting either has kids or is pregnant, and I just feel so sad. So, I had a scotch and Seven because the likelihood that we get pregnant this month is pretty small, and this week has been awful.”
“I don’t feel that way,” I said. “Technically we have a 25 percent chance of getting pregnant this month.”
“Well, one drink isn’t going to make a difference anyway.”
“I’m not concerned about the drink, but it does make me sad to hear you sounding so defeated. I have been feeling so positive this week.” I had a good feeling, and had been attempting to use positivity to fill the voids created by Constance and our packed possessions.
Constance’s stress, however, had forced her negative hand, and rightfully so. She missed me, she missed Marcy, she missed her bed and her pillow, and when the digits were totaled she could no longer support the sum. I had been fighting tears all day long thinking about Aunt Dee. I compounded my sadness by dipping into my forbidden songs playlist, the ones that send me sulking even on the best days. Starting with R.E.M.’s “Sweetness Follows” was no doubt mistaken listening, but segueing into Tori Amos’ “Playboy Mommy,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide,” John Lennon’s “Real Love” and Aimee Mann’s “Deathly” was an emotional slash to the jugular.
What I didn’t realize until this morning, though, was how infintisimal the divide between positivity and negativity truly is. We both want this to happen, and our patience is limited edition. Intense feelings breed intense reactions, and at the time when I felt sadly disconnected from the thing I love the most, we were the same words in the same sentences on the the same page of the same novel. We were simply two different interpretations of a critical passage.
Thankfully, it’s one of the greatest love stories ever told, and no amount of different readings can spoil the happy ending. Not even if the story takes a non-baby turn again this chapter.
Filed under: Husband & Wife