Marriage
is such a pain
Had a strange day yesterday.
Yesterday I was thinking about getting married again. Just musing,
daydreaming really, a weak moment. I was thinking that after
10 years of single life, a career change and a move from northern
California to Austin, Texas, maybe it was time to settle down
with a woman again and live the remainder of my life under her
loving care and jurisdiction.
After all, marriage isn't that bad, right? It's two people sharing their plans and dreams, picking the other one up when they're down and being there when no one else is around. Co-dependency, I think they call it.
I remember some great times with the ex-wife, times when we'd linger over coffee on weekend mornings and share long discussions about politics, philosophy, pop music or whatever came to mind. I remember waking up and saying, "It's a beautiful morning, look at the nimbus clouds breaking over the horizon." And then she'd say, "No, those are cirrus clouds, I believe." And then I'd say, "Nope... nimbus, nimrod" Then she'd say, "Nope... cirrus, suckface." And before we knew it, day would pass into night and we'd still be discussing clouds with the same intense passion usually reserved for game dogs and speed-lab rodents.
And yet another day passed
without sex.
Sure, there were tough times too. Sure, we had our disagreements. Sure, I couldn't stand her family, especially on Sundays when her mom would visit with that big, stupid, mongrel dog of hers and ruin football for me. Or times when my brother-in-law would drop by after an A.A. meeting and share his "message of hope and inspiration," interrupt my beer drinking and ruin football for me. And times when her 19-year-old sister would come over after her aerobics workout dressed in those tight, black leotards, her breasts standing tall and proud like prairie dogs, her legs as long as a desert highway. Okay, I have to admit, that was football enhancing.
My marriage didn't work
out and ended in a nasty divorce, but I handled it. First...
I moved out of the house. It's a policy. Divorce me and I move
out. My ex (whose idea of a quiet night at home is having sex
with a mime troupe) didn't handle things quite so well. She frequented
nightclubs dancing with younger, taller and generally better-looking
men than I, pathetically pretending to have a good time.
But just because I suffered
one devastating experience doesn't mean that marriage is a bad
thing or out of the question ever again, right? All I really
need to do is find someone who appreciates me for me, cause I'll
never change, nooooooooooo, not me Bubba. Besides, the divorce
wasn't all my fault. Mostly my fault, but the thing is I'm a
different person now. It's been 10 years since I've been married
and I've learned a lot in 10 years. I've learned to cook, clean,
sew, arrange furniture, do dishes and frankly I'm sick of it.
I need a fucking wife, damn it. Because the best time to get
married is either when you don't really need to get married or
when you're looking for a quick-fix to a bad lifestyle, I forget
which.
But... like an alcoholic dreaming of a cold beer on a summer's day, I catch myself. Get married? Me? And go through all of that again?
You know, it's funny. When I was 15 years old and playing Babe Ruth baseball, the hottest pitcher in the league was Jay Stimack. The lefty owned a hopping fast ball, a hypnotizing slider and a wicked screwball that confused most batters and many catchers. One sweltering day in June, the coach called me over and asked if I would mind sitting behind the plate to give our regular catcher a break from the hot sun. I wasn't qualified for the relationship, but I eagerly accepted the position.
"Are you wearing a cup?" the coach asked. "Sure,"
I lied. I wasn't even wearing a jock strap.
I got behind the plate and took some warm-up throws. The kid's
fast ball flew in at a blinding speed and I needed to insert
two sponges inside my catcher's mitt just to ease the sting.
All too soon, I crouched behind the plate as the first batter
stood in. Jay's first pitch exploded like a grenade in my mitt
for a strike. The second pitch hummed over the plate for another
strike, but I couldn't hold on to it and the ball bounced off
my mitt and trickled to the backstop.
I crouched down, slapped my mitt and adjusted my catcher's mask.
No doubt the next pitch would sail across the plate for strike
three and this time I'd have to hold on to the ball or the batter
might make it to first on a lame catcher's error. I called for
a slider, reluctantly. He shook off my sign and called for a
screwball. Hmmm. Hadn't seen that one yet.
The screwball missed,
a little outside and low. Instead of moving my mitt out to meet
the ball, I lunged my entire body. The ball bounced off the mitt,
hit my shin guard, grazed against my thigh and smashed soundly
into my unprotected genitals. The next few seconds passed in
slow motion. I stood up to retrieve the ball and although I was
severely wounded, the pain had yet to reach my central nervous
system. I took two steps before a wave of agony swelled from
my testicles and climbed upward through my intestines, ripping
out my guts. The pain spread through my limbs and left me wide-eyed
and semi-paralyzed on the ground. Two to three minutes passed
before I even had the presence of mind to make a sound. I lay
on the ground, moaning and writhing in the red dust of the diamond,
helpless.
The coach of the opposing team -- among the crowd of men and
boys now scrutinizing my failing form -- blurted out, "Feels
like you swallowed the whole world, don't it?"
A fair analogy. My masculinity was nearly demolished. No physical
pain before or since has ever made such an impact on me.
The thing is... why don't I ever think about doing that again?
* * *
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1998 by Mike Jasper.
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