Years ago - roughly one half-grown child ago - my friend S. from graduate school (that's University of Arkansas to the uninitiated) met The Love of Her Life, an Arkansas boy named B.
B. was a sweet, long-haired boy with the open manner and wide smile of Bodhi, the golden retriever that keeps stealing shoes and dumping them in the yard. In fact, now that I think about it, B. had a lot in common with our Bodhi. At any rate, S. and B. fell into mad, passionate union, a sweet joining that could not be contained by say, a public movie theater or a bench with students passing around them. This beautiful love was hampered by only one smallish problem: He was already married. To his junior high sweetheart.
Yes, our friend B. had a wife that he'd been with rather happily ever since the freshman prom in HatchChili, Arkansas. But, as he charmingly put it to me one day, he felt he had traded up with the pampered daughter of an LA heart surgeon. As S. put it, "B. is perfect. He's perfect to me. We're perfect. It's all perfect."
Cut to: B.'s wife in agony.
Divorce. Proposal. Engagement.
After an elaborate $75,000 wedding wherein I was a bridesmaid wearing a hideous pee-colored dress with a giant back bow, S. got pregnant. Baby arrived, followed by divorce. B, you see, a high school teacher, behaved like that old man in that book by Nabokov. Although it must be admitted that he is still with his former student, for what it's worth. At any rate, the relationship that began as "perfect" ended in a semi-Greek tragedy, proving two points: If they do it to someone else, they'll do it to you, and it's all perfect is a terrifying statement, and might give God an excellent reason to look down and say Spinal Bifida.
Which is possibly why I tend to distrust the sentiment. But why do I bring this up? Because at the moment my own B., Hapa Boy, is perfect, and treating me perfectly and it makes me slightly anxious.
On the other hand, Hapa Boy. did not leave his junior high sweetheart for me. Because you know, if you're looking for red flags, that's practically Nascar, isn't it?
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3 comments:
well, I think your reaction is normal
and as they say - listen to your gut
but then I hate everybody
(except huzbeau, and baby seester, oh and that girl from caracas, and the potty mouth muslim gardener and hot hot black girl in SF - oh, and you kinda ;-)
I guess I hate *most* people
w00f
But you do love every dog - so be as misanthropic as you want. I can get behind that. :)
miss ann thorp used to me my online moniker until baby seester stole it - I guess that's what baby sisters are for. Also, it seems to run in the family...misanthropism, not thievery that is
w00f
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