Probably the only reason I would marry is to coach again. Yet…
Now that I’m sort of retired, I like Monday mornings. I never liked them before. You started dreading them on Sunday afternoons, and by Sunday night you had what one daughter called “the Sundays,” the sense of negative anticipation that work Mondays bring.
For most of my life, Monday meant school and work and rushing off to meetings where nothing ever got accomplished, but the boss felt validated because, “Hey, we had a meeting. Probably change the world.”
Rarely did it ever.
Now on Mondays, I work on writing projects no one will likely ever read, such as a screenplay about my parents’ marriage … how it may have influenced my marriage and on and on.
Marriage is funny. Not a lot of laughs, yet funny still. I miss sharing things with someone. I miss arguing over whether chili should have beans (yes), or if salsa should be green or red (green).
I miss having a history with someone. I miss recounting the concerts my late wife and I saw, or the bad apartments we shared.
Not sure if I miss marriage, but I miss all that. So I guess I miss marriage.
At lunch the other day, I told a couple of friends that the only reason to marry again would be to have children to coach in baseball. I liked coaching more than I liked marriage. But I liked coaching more than almost anything.
Over cheeseburgers, my buddies Dave and Bill bet me that I would get married again. These two have known me a very long time, seen my kids grow up, seen and lived the saga of a modern married life.
Right now, the only people I want to be with constantly are Smartacus and White Fang.
They bet me that I would marry again, when I insisted I would not. They said it would be within five years.
So that clock is ticking. I suppose I win one way or the other: I either win the bet, or I win a person I want to go to concerts with, price a new couch, make plans for Christmas. That might even be better than money, though only time would tell. When it comes to marriage, it’s the expiration dates that scare me.
Right now, the only people I want to be with constantly are Smartacus and White Fang. Neither is interested in marriage, or even a prolonged friendship. Our relationship is built mostly on my feeding them and watching lots of sports together on television. Just my kind of guys (though White Fang is a female, she has adopted many of the idiot male habits of the pack).
If I could only find that. If only I could find someone who appreciates that I make grocery lists in meter, like a poet, and that I am fun at movies, because I share arm rests and popcorn, and I like to lean over and feel the warmth of the person next to me (and dig for any M&Ms she might’ve dropped).
And that I’m kind of funny at the oddest, most-unfortunate times, like at funerals, or during airport delays, or naked in bed. Especially then.
If only I could find someone who likes bicentennials and Dixieland bands. Or bumming around fishing tackle stores on long autumn days, and coming home to stack firewood in neat, uniform piles, like shelves of old books.
Whose favorite color is denim. Whose favorite flavor is yum. As in, “There’s a lot of yum in those ribs.” Or, “These beans need more yum.”
Hopefully, for the sake of all that is holy, there are no women like that. Can you imagine?
But if there ever were…
My new book, “Lavender in Your Lemonade,” is now out. We priced it, like all good literature, by the pound: $11 for the paperback; $7 for the e-book. Selling books is selling blood – just less lucrative. So please, if you happen to find it worthy, go here to post A CUSTOMER REVIEW