Remember the 90's? I do. I was in my teens, more or less. I was less in my teens during the era of the "power ballad" (think Ted Nugent, folks), when big hair and men having feelings was the new black. Oh lord, I loved that shit. I'd dance and sing along, and imagine myself singing these amazing power ballads myself, onstage, in front of millions of fans... oh, and I'd imagine being in love too.
The thing about power ballads is, behind the amazing lyrics and men standing in little groups playing their guitars and singing their souls, a lot of those men were on drugs, cheating on their wives, or in the case of Bret Michels (allegedly), didn't even have real hair. Those power ballads were about as genuine as Dolly Parton's mammaries. The 90's was one big steaming pile of bullshit.
So let's talk about my marriage. I used to have an amazing marriage. My husband and I spent every moment together, texted each other all day at work, shared all of our challenges and accomplishments, held hands, cooked dinner and talked, and no matter what, we always had each other. People were goddamn jealous of us. We were a fairy tale, although sort of in reverse -- I was the successful one, sweeping the less career-blessed but sweet and loving husband off his feet and taking care of him forever. Sure, he had no aspirations in life, but he did anything for me (no really, this part is serious). Inwardly, I sort of wondered when the other shoe was gonna drop, but decided one day, nah, that's never gonna happen. We're soul mates and perfect for each other, and I can relax.
Enter Tits McGee.
Just like it was on cue, my neighbor one day announced her little sister was coming to visit. And she was a former gymnast with gigantic boobs. That she was! Short, a little round, but with giant boobs and lots of backflips. The first night she stayed in town, she stayed up chatting on the porch with my husband till about 3AM. Cue the Ted Nugent ballad, because those idiots were smoking the stinky plant like it was going out of style. They couldn't take each other high enough, so they smoked more. Every day. And it was all pretty much downhill from there. More and more fights with me, more and more time over there. Fewer and fewer IQ points. And the fights eventually turned into "I don't even want to be around you anymore", and finally, at long last, "look... I'm just not good enough for you. I really don't have any aspirations in life other than to smoke weed and hang out with my friends. I don't like talking to you. You use all these big words... I just like being retarded. I never grew up. I'm sorry."
Seriously, did I just get dumped for a plant?
So we've separated, whatever the fuck that means. Apparently, "separation" is what you call it when you don't bother to get divorced, but one person goes out all night and then stops by the house in the morning to ask you for lunch money and give you a hug. So much for soul mates.
But I realized, this evening, crying in my living room and wishing my marriage would magically reappear, that my whole marriage was a 90's power ballad. Oh yeah, we were all standing there in a circle with our guitars once, but he's on drugs, thinking of her instead of his wife, and her hair color isn't even real.
Shit.
Great. What's under the goddamn rug this time? What happened? Oh, it's easy to say that he's just an asshole, he changed, it's his fault, yadda yadda, but the fact is, my marriage was probably one big steaming pile of bullshit to begin with. Anyone whose life is that perfect without any effort deserves a kick in the face anyway. Mine happened to come from a size 5 shoe attached to a 36DD chest (there were legs and stuff in between too, I was just highlighting the amusing parts). I thought crap like that only happened to first wives that gave up their perfect bodies to have children, but oh no, folks, if you're a thin woman sporting a mere 34B, it can happen to you too. I wasn't immune or exempt from anything, I was subject to the same laws of all marriages that so many people break. I'm human. I have flaws and weaknesses. Unfortunately, my husband has flaws too, and he likes them. A lot.
So here's to you, Tits McGee. Without you, I'd never know the truth. Cue the music.
No comments:
Post a Comment