When your husband’s pants are on fire

I married R. in the summer of 1987 after a 6 year live-in relationship, and one break up over his reluctance to get married. For more background on this relationship and how we came to be engaged, see my June 8, 2010 blog post “Three Engagements.”

I loved R. to a fault and thought we were very happy. I had the guy I had always wanted, we had a bought a lovely home we were fixing up, we had decent careers, good friends, and lots to look forward to in our lives together.

I believe R. was completely faithful to me during our 6 years of dating and living together (there was one 1.5 year period where we had to live in different cities, but we spent every weekend together and he was very committed during this time, so I do not suspect anything went on when we were apart).

But, I believe something about being officially “married” caused a psychological chafing for R., and that he eventually rebelled against this discomfort that was in his head. I say it was in his head because nothing changed after the nuptials. We went on exactly as before—he was pretty much a “man-boy” and I completely facilitated his life as his “wife-mom.” Yes, that was (or should have been) a red flag; I spoiled and indulged him—too much, as it turns out.

I have since realized that something probably DID change after we were married. I felt a little more comfortable clearly stating, and sticking by, what I did not want to do. But I feel the things I did not want to do should not have put my marriage at risk.

R. was a dedicated downhill skier and windsurfer. I totally supported his pursuit and enjoyment of these sports, but I did not share his deep passion for them. I was a capable enough, intermediate skier and I would have gone on any number of ski trips with R., except for one thing. He never wanted to pay for motels, or any accommodation for that matter. He owned a succession of old, beat-up Volkswagen vans (not camperized or winterized or anything—no cooking capability, nothing but a bed) and he would simply sleep in the van in the ski hill parking lot.

Without any reliable access to a toilet or shower facilities, I found this really unappealing—especially as we got older, had decent jobs, and could actually afford a motel. It got to the point where I said I would only go skiing with him if we stayed in a motel. He would not agree, so I stayed home. There was no wrath or anger involved. I didn’t want to stand in his way of skiing, and I thought he was okay with my choice not to sleep in the van and have to scrounge around for a toilet or shower.

This was repeated in summertime during windsurfing season on the Columbia River in Oregon. Again, the junket would involve parking the decrepit van on a side road somewhere at night, sleeping in the vehicle, and scrounging for toilet/shower facilities. I did not windsurf (and the wind there was “nuclear” meaning really high speed), and I was not interested in learning, so my day consisted of sitting on a rocky, very windy rivershore trying to find a sheltered place to read. It wore thin pretty fast and I stopped going after just one trip.

Important sidebar—about 2 years into our married life, I worked hard for and won a major job promotion. My income increased by about 30%. At the time I recall reading a statistic that said something along the lines of ‘for every $1,000.00 of additional annual income a woman earns during marriage, her chance of divorce increases by 10%.’ I knew that wouldn’t be us—surely R. would be proud of me and not at all threatened by my increased earning power!

Meanwhile R. was upping the pressure on me to go skiing and windsurfing with him, all the while insisting we’d sleep in the van etc. I was 30 by now, and he was 35—we weren’t broke and we weren’t hippie kids—I was NOT going to sleep in a damn van that had no amenities.

During one such discussion, I remember turning to him and succinctly saying “I am a great wife and lover, I am very attractive, I treat you, your family and our friends really well, I look after everything in our lives, I work hard and earn a great income, I do all the cooking, cleaning, laundry and grocery shopping which gives you more time to play—time that I do not interfere with or make any demands around. If you think you can find another girl who will do all that, PLUS ski/windsurf with you all day AND sleep in that van, then GO GET HER!” And it appears he did just that.

Best I can figure out, he was likely carrying on with a secretary he met at work for up to a year before the first letter arrived at my office. It was June 1990, and one of the administrative staff in the executive suite where I worked (whose job it was to open all the mail) sheepishly brought me this evil-looking little envelope she’d opened. She looked so sorry for me. Inside it was one sheet of paper with this typed on it “You should ask your husband who C. is. They were very cosy and kissy on Friday night at Pier 42.”

Wow. R. had been out late that past Friday night. He’d told me he’d been with some windsurfing buddies and their wives—no big deal. Anyway, I asked R. who C. was and he assured me he had no idea what all that was about and there was nothing going on. And I believed him. I mean, why not? Who was I going to put my trust and faith in—the man I married and had been with for 9 years, or an anonymous source?

A couple of months go by and another anonymous poison pen letter arrives at the office. Same staff member has the unpleasant task of delivering it to me. This one said “The husband and wife who don’t play together, don’t stay together!” Again, R. convincingly professes total ignorance.

A month later, a third missive comes to the office that says “The wife is always the last to know!!!” By now I am an object of sheer pity among my many co-workers and colleagues. (It later turned out several of them knew of the affair in quite some factual detail, and no one would tell me).

By this time, R. had me convinced that someone was just jealous and maliciously targeting us for some reason, and we had to stand united against this pyscho.

But, after the third letter, I guess R. finally realized this was not going to let up and someone was not stopping until I clued in. He confessed the basics of the affair to me one Sunday morning while I was still in my bathrobe with greasy hair. I remember standing in the shower later that morning, the tears streaming down my cheeks mixing with the stream of water from the shower nozzle. Everything seemed like it was going down the drain.

As author Phyllis Theroux puts it—my innocence was shattered and taken from me—by someone I trusted and loved above all others. My world fell apart and there was nothing I could do to put it back together, especially not when the other half of that world wasn’t even willing to try.

He left me and initially went to live in his trusty van, of course. I am certain he shortly moved in with the mistress, C. I am also convinced that C., or a friend of C.’s, was behind the poison pen letters. R. denied that possibility and defended her but, come on, who else would have had the incentive to try to expose the affair and get him booted out so she could have him? People don’t usually do anything so extreme unless there is something in it for them. And those letters were not written compassionately to a wronged wife. They were written to cause trouble and break up the marriage. That poison pen letter writer sure chalked up some mighty bad karma for themselves, is all I have to say.

I didn’t think their relationship would last, and it didn’t. I believe that after she “got” him, she upped the ante, expected him to now marry her; and, I feel safe assuming she stopped going skiing and windsurfing with him all the time, and objected to sleeping in his van. I understand he broke up with her within a year or so.

Twenty years later, I can reflect on all of this and honestly say I hope he feels he made the right choices and that he’s better off because of them. I know I am much better off because of what he did and the learning that came about for me.

Todo bien. (It’s all good).

other blog entries from »