Jared’s got other reasons for singing her praises. He’s the recent recipient of a Dear John letter that wasn’t intended for him to find. He was trying to hide an engagement ring he bought for his girlfriend, and when he went into the sock drawer, he happened upon the note. When he called her on it, she said she wrote it “ages ago” and swears that she’s happy—but he can’t shake it from his head, and now he’s afraid that she’s gonna dump him any second.
“That damn sock drawer,” Jared says morosely, as he takes a swig of his beer.
“That’s a great band name,” I say. We come up with band names constantly—never mind that none of us is in a band.
“Or at least an album title,” Doug adds.
“You ever think about the fact that your wife is the last woman you are ever going to be with?” I ask in Doug’s direction. We had a running joke that he’d never get married—that every IT guy’s true love is Diet Coke, since that’s the only thing most take to bed—but he managed to find the right girl regardless.
Jared feels the need to interject. “No, because I don’t have a wife. I could have had a fiancée, but that damn—”
“Sock drawer,” Doug and I say in unison.
“I was talking mostly to Doug, bro,” I add.
“Yeah, man. Layla’s the last person you are ever going to be with. But you got married like twenty years ago.”
“Six,” I correct.
“This is the kind of stuff you should have thought about, oh, I don’t know,
before
you got married.”
“Yeah, man,” Jared adds. “And Layla’s awesome. What more could you want?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. You’re right. Layla’s the best,” I say.
“Trust me,” Jared replies. “There’s nothing more.”
“Then that’s pretty fuckin’ sad.”
“Who pissed in
your
cornflakes this morning?” Doug mutters. “All this ’cause you got some wood over a chick?”
“First of all, I didn’t get wood,” I correct. “And second of all, nothing. It’s cool. I’m just contemplative tonight. Is that all right? Can we be grown-ups for one night? Is that allowed?”
“We’ve
been
grown-ups, dude,” Jared says. “Sounds like you’re just getting the memo and may not like the responsibility that comes with it.”
“Fuck you, dude,” I say, only I realize he might be right, and that fuckin’ stings.
Luckily, I need to head back to school to do some prep work before our game against NWMSU. Otherwise, I’d have to hear more of this garbage. So I leave the guys to finish their happy hour, which will probably extend until the game, when they always show up to support the team by being slobs and yelling shit.
It’s not that I don’t love my wife. I do. I love the hell out of her. But there’s a fundamental difference between loving your wife and loving being married. One has nothing to do with the other, I’m beginning to realize. Especially when it doesn’t feel like we’re connecting the way we used to. She did leave the game last week.
Am I going to find a note in the sock drawer one of these days?
layla
Ginny shows up at our office—which is more pet playground than workplace, especially now that Lou, Trish’s dog, is back from the groomer—but that’s never seemed to matter. Ginny gets us. She always has.
“We don’t photograph
people,”
Trish teases. “Sorry.” She pretends to shut the door in her mother’s face.
“Don’t think we’ve met,” Ginny says, holding her own. “I’m here to see my daughter:
Layla
.”
“Ouch,” Trish says, and she takes a few steps back, pretending she’s been stabbed. “Careful there, Mom. Any more of this emotional abuse and I could turn into a lesbian.”
I push Trish out of the way and embrace Ginny. “Can you believe it? You were my first call!”
“Of course I can,” Ginny says. “I’m so proud of my girls.” She pulls Trish into a three-way hug. She’s so amazing. We’re lucky to have her.
“So, did you just come to celebrate
“That damn sock drawer,” Jared says morosely, as he takes a swig of his beer.
“That’s a great band name,” I say. We come up with band names constantly—never mind that none of us is in a band.
“Or at least an album title,” Doug adds.
“You ever think about the fact that your wife is the last woman you are ever going to be with?” I ask in Doug’s direction. We had a running joke that he’d never get married—that every IT guy’s true love is Diet Coke, since that’s the only thing most take to bed—but he managed to find the right girl regardless.
Jared feels the need to interject. “No, because I don’t have a wife. I could have had a fiancée, but that damn—”
“Sock drawer,” Doug and I say in unison.
“I was talking mostly to Doug, bro,” I add.
“Yeah, man. Layla’s the last person you are ever going to be with. But you got married like twenty years ago.”
“Six,” I correct.
“This is the kind of stuff you should have thought about, oh, I don’t know,
before
you got married.”
“Yeah, man,” Jared adds. “And Layla’s awesome. What more could you want?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. You’re right. Layla’s the best,” I say.
“Trust me,” Jared replies. “There’s nothing more.”
“Then that’s pretty fuckin’ sad.”
“Who pissed in
your
cornflakes this morning?” Doug mutters. “All this ’cause you got some wood over a chick?”
“First of all, I didn’t get wood,” I correct. “And second of all, nothing. It’s cool. I’m just contemplative tonight. Is that all right? Can we be grown-ups for one night? Is that allowed?”
“We’ve
been
grown-ups, dude,” Jared says. “Sounds like you’re just getting the memo and may not like the responsibility that comes with it.”
“Fuck you, dude,” I say, only I realize he might be right, and that fuckin’ stings.
Luckily, I need to head back to school to do some prep work before our game against NWMSU. Otherwise, I’d have to hear more of this garbage. So I leave the guys to finish their happy hour, which will probably extend until the game, when they always show up to support the team by being slobs and yelling shit.
It’s not that I don’t love my wife. I do. I love the hell out of her. But there’s a fundamental difference between loving your wife and loving being married. One has nothing to do with the other, I’m beginning to realize. Especially when it doesn’t feel like we’re connecting the way we used to. She did leave the game last week.
Am I going to find a note in the sock drawer one of these days?
layla
Ginny shows up at our office—which is more pet playground than workplace, especially now that Lou, Trish’s dog, is back from the groomer—but that’s never seemed to matter. Ginny gets us. She always has.
“We don’t photograph
people,”
Trish teases. “Sorry.” She pretends to shut the door in her mother’s face.
“Don’t think we’ve met,” Ginny says, holding her own. “I’m here to see my daughter:
Layla
.”
“Ouch,” Trish says, and she takes a few steps back, pretending she’s been stabbed. “Careful there, Mom. Any more of this emotional abuse and I could turn into a lesbian.”
I push Trish out of the way and embrace Ginny. “Can you believe it? You were my first call!”
“Of course I can,” Ginny says. “I’m so proud of my girls.” She pulls Trish into a three-way hug. She’s so amazing. We’re lucky to have her.
“So, did you just come to celebrate
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